


Through Fearful Dark, We Hope

by wbss21



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parenting, But also even more comfort, Emotional Abuse, Hate Crimes, Hate Speech, Homophobia, Hurt Viktor Nikforov, Hurt/Comfort, I promise it's going to have a happy ending guys, LOT'S OF HURT, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Neglect, Physical Abuse, Podium Family, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Supportive Yakov Feltsman, Viktor's Mother, Viktor's father - Freeform, Violence, homophobia in russia, viktor's Tragic Past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2020-11-08 12:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 166,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20835215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wbss21/pseuds/wbss21
Summary: After taking home gold in their respective competitions, Viktor and Yuuri return home to St. Petersburg for some much needed rest, and to celebrate their continued success together, as competitors, as coach and student, and as lovers.  But when Viktor is brutally beaten in a horrific homophobic attack, life will be forever altered for the both of them.  The road to recovery is hardly guaranteed, and both Yuuri and Viktor will find themselves faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges, not only to their careers as competitive figure skaters, but to their lives together as gay men.  Hard truths will be revealed about Viktor's past in homophobic Russia, and Yuuri is forced to deal with the reality that the man who always seemed to him an unbreakable rock of strength and sureness, has been reduced to anything but, and that, perhaps, he never was.  Yuuri must find a way to cope with the unfamiliar role of being the one to take care of a now broken and hurting Viktor, while holding on to his own hopes and dreams.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! So, just a few words before getting to the first chapter. This story is more or less a kind of expansion of the idea I had for my other Yuri on Ice story, basically the situation in Russia regarding homosexuality and the attitudes towards it there. It's not directly connected to my other story, but I'm using a lot of the same elements, while bringing it into a more present context and upping the drama and overall stakes. Obviously, just a few warnings. We're dealing with some pretty intense sequences of homophobia and hate crimes being committed in relation to that kind of prejudice, and all of the related trauma, physical, mental and emotional that impacts victims of hate crimes, both directly and indirectly. 
> 
> With that said, let's get started! I hope you're engaged by the story, and if you like what you're reading, leave me a comment and let me know! I'm planning multiple chapters for this, so your support would go a long way towards keeping me motivated!

The city looks beautiful tonight, Viktor thinks as he makes his way along the edge of the river, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. He looks up at the overcast sky, flakes of snow falling silent and gentle overhead, blanketing the streets in white. 

It's the quiet he loves the most. The way the normally busy sounds of so much life become suddenly so muted and soft. As if the entire world has gone to sleep.

Compared to the hectic bustle of his and Yuuri's day to day life, especially these last couple of weeks, it was really nice, just to experience some true peace and quiet.

Viktor smiles to himself.

They'd been apart the last two weeks, each assigned different competitions on opposite sides of the world. Each of them had brought home gold. 

Viktor had told Yuuri before leaving for Nationals that he wasn't going to go easy on him, despite being his coach and wishing him the best of luck, and he'd driven that message home by not only besting Yurio, but smashing the world record both him and his Yuuri had set in the short and free programs last season, improving his own, overall combined record by almost three points.

Yuuri had been over the moon, but had promptly threatened that he was coming for those same records during the next competition. One in which he and Viktor would be facing off against each other, of course. At the Olympics. Viktor had gladly accepted the challenge.

The truth was, Viktor was beyond proud of Yuuri. Truly. He'd been sweeping all his competitions this season, and performing with incredible confidence. If anyone was going to take back the records he'd most recently set, Viktor thinks, it was going to be his boyfriend. 

He'd always known Yuuri had it in him to be this great. It had only been a matter of getting him to believe it himself.

They'd finally arrived back home in St. Petersburg just a couple of hours ago, and of course Viktor had wanted to celebrate. There hadn't been much in the way of food at their apartment though, and so they'd made a plan. Both had felt too exhausted to really go out to eat, and so Yuuri would order in from a restaurant of his choosing, and Viktor would venture out to pick up a bottle of white wine.

It was late, but this was Russia. There were plenty of liquor stores still open.

Yuuri, as was typical, had protested Viktor going out so late by himself. He always worried so much, but Viktor had assured him there was nothing to worry about. There was a liquor store less than 20 minutes walk from their place. They lived in a safe area. He would be back before the food had even arrived, probably.

//

He's the only one in the shop, other than the attendant, and when he finally exits back out onto the street, bottle of wine in hand, he notices how similarly empty it is. Glancing down at his watch, he sees it's just past midnight. So no surprise. Everyone's gone home.

Viktor realizes he's meandered a bit, taking longer than he should have in the liquor store, and so he pulls out his phone, sending a quick text to Yuuri to let him know he was on his way back. Yurri responds immediately, telling him the food had just arrived a moment ago, so he should hurry before it gets cold.

Viktor tells him okay, slipping the phone back into his pocket before beginning to walk.

It had gotten colder in the time he'd been in the shop, and he pulls his coat tighter around himself, picking up his pace, wanting suddenly to just be home with Yuuri and have a nice, relaxed evening with him.

He's about halfway back when he looks up from the snow covered ground to see a man walking towards him.

Even from about 20 meters away, Viktor can see he's a big man. Tall and broad shouldered, with a shambling kind of gate. Though he supposes it could be the man's clothes that make him appear so bulky, given their loose, worn appearance. 

A vague knot of apprehension worms its way into Viktor's gut as he and the man draw nearer to each other, and Viktor scolds himself internally for his sudden paranoia. 

It wasn't without reason, though. He's reminded of that fact courtesy his own memories. Mocking laughter, ugly words and grabbing, clubbing hands meant to hurt. 

It was something he still hadn't told Yuuri about. Something he wasn't sure he ever wanted to.

This was Russia, and it wasn't any sort of secret, nor had it been in a long time, what Viktor was. Everyone knew. There were those that took exception to it. Those who had, during Viktor's youth and early 20s, let him know of their disapproval of his lifestyle in varying, sometimes violent ways.

Viktor had been beaten up more times than he really wished to recall. 

He'd tried, still, not to let that reality sour his interactions with people. Most people were kind and friendly. He knows that. He didn't want to tense up like this every time he was alone and came across someone who looked to him odd.

The man isn't even looking at him though, and Viktor doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he and the man move past one another without incident.

The man really had been big. Taller even than himself, and Viktor hadn't failed to notice his thick, strong looking hands. Like a laborers hands.

It was silly. And unkind, besides, for Viktor to feel fearful simply due to the man's appearance, a touch of guilt building up at the realization.

He puts his head down, quickening his stride, wanting more urgently still to get home.

“Viktor Nikiforov?”

Viktor stops at the sound of his name being called, not far behind him, and he turns, seeing the man from before standing there, staring back at him.

Viktor can feel his heart beat hard for a moment, the same feeling of apprehension returning, before he forces it back down, turning fully to face the man.

“Yes?” He makes himself answer. 

He was well known in Russia, after all. All over the world, really. It wasn't unusual for anyone to know who he was. 

The man smiles at him, seeming genuinely pleased, and Viktor can feel some of the anxiety go out of him.

“Man, I thought it was you!” The man starts, taking a step closer. “I can't believe it! You've been a hero of mine since forever!”

And with that, the anxiety vanishes completely. A fan. 

Viktor smiles back, stepping toward the man and holding a hand out.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sir.” He greets.

The man reaches out, taking his hand, and his grip is painful as he squeezes back, keeping his eyes on Viktor.

“Wow, I can't believe I'm actually getting to meet the Viktor Nikiforov!” He goes on excitedly, still gripping Viktor's hand.

Viktor continues smiling back, even as he wishes the man would let his hand go.

He does, just as Viktor is beginning to feel uneasy again.

The man continues to stare at him, his eyes, Viktor notices, almost unsettling in their scrutiny, and it's a struggle not to look away.

“Hey, uh, I hate to ask, but... do you think I could get an autograph? So people know I met you?”

Again Viktor smiles.

“Of course.” He nods. “But, I'm afraid I don't have anything to sign with.”

“It's fine. I've got a pen. Here, you can sign the cover of this.” 

The man produces a ballpoint pen and a magazine from out his coat's inside pocket, and Viktor notices immediately the picture of him and Yuuri on the magazine's cover. A shot taken of them from a couple of months ago at one of the circuit competitions. Yuuri has his arm around Viktor's waist, both their heads leaned together as they smile for the camera.

It strikes Viktor as odd that the man would just happen to be carrying around a magazine with a picture of the two of them on the cover, given his seeming surprise at meeting Viktor just now. 

Though he did say he was a long time fan, so... and he and Yurri were in the media a lot now, given the season start. Maybe it wasn't so strange.

He takes the pen and magazine from the man. He can feel his smile growing tight, thinking about wanting to get back to the apartment already. Get back to Yurri. 

“Of course.” He tells the man. “Who should I make it out to?”

“Hmmm...” the man hums, seeming to think for a moment. Viktor uncaps the pen, poised over the magazine to write whatever the man requests. “How about... 'To my favorite little faggot, Viktor Nikiforov?'.”

Viktor feels his stomach lurch.

He looks up at the man, and sees the smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look of naked disdain.

He blinks, and for a moment, it's as if his tongue won't work, shock keeping his voice down.

“... What?” He finally manages.

“You heard me, faggot.” The man says.

He motions forward, and Viktor instantly steps back, his heart hammering viciously now in his chest.

He feels his throat close up with fear. This man means to hurt him. Of course. He'd seen that look, heard those words enough times to know. It did nothing to lessen the pain of it, sharp and stunning still.

For a moment, he can't think what to do.

“... I'm sorry.” He at last stammers out, shaking his head. He begins handing the pen and magazine back to the man, his hands, he realizes, shaking. “I need to be going.”

The man doesn't take his eyes off of him, and twisted smirk pulling at his lips.

“Where do you think you're going to go?” He asks. “I ain't done with you.”

Viktor drops the magazine and pen to the ground. 

He needs to run.

The man was strong, but Viktor was in immense condition, and he doesn't think there was any way the man would be able to catch him. Not at the pace he could run. His and Yuuri's apartment was only a few blocks away. He could make it there easily.

He thinks to turn and simply bolt, when there comes the sound of snow being crushed underfoot behind him.

Immediately Viktor turns, and he sees approaching, only feet away, three more men, all similarly built to the first, all with their eyes fixed on him, their expressions hateful. Two of them are carrying weapons; a baseball bat and what looks like a long chain.

For a moment, panic blinds him, his vision whiting out as it dawns on him what's really happening.

“What's the matter, twinkle toes?” The first man asks behind him, and Viktor turns back, seeing he's come closer, standing within reach of him now. “Where's all that arrogant attitude I always see you got on TV?”

“Where's that cock sucking boyfriend of yours, Viktor?” One of the others starts, and Viktor feels dizzy a moment with fear. “You two are fuckin' disgusting, you know that? Gettin' all kissy with each other on TV.”

Yuuri... Yuuri would be safe, Viktor tries to tell himself. Their apartment was in a secured building. You needed a code to get in. These men wouldn't be able to. Their address wasn't public anyway, so they wouldn't even know where to find it. Yuuri would be okay.

He feels his grip tighten over the bottle of wine, throat tight.

The bottle of wine, Viktor thinks. 

If he could somehow hit the first man over the head with it, he could make a run for it then. If he could just get a few steps on them, he could outrun them. He knows that.

He's thinking of doing it. He just needs to make the blow count, he just needs...

“What's that you got in your hand, pretty boy?”

He feels one of the three men behind grab at the bottle he's holding, and without thinking, he yanks his arm away, turning his back on the first man. It's a mistake.

He feels powerful arms wrap around him from behind, hooking under his arms and pulling him back against a broad chest.

The three men in front of him grin, starting to laugh, and Viktor's panic doubles. He doesn't think as he tries desperately to break free of the hold he's in, kicking his legs out, trying to rip forward.

He doesn't get anywhere, the man's hold tightening somehow more, and he sees one of the other three step closer, reaching again for the wine bottle.

Viktor tries to pull away, but he can't. He can't move at all, and he feels his wrist taken hold of in another, crushing grip.

“Lets have it candy ass.” The man snarls, his grip tightening viciously over his wrist, threatening to break it, and Viktor's fingers spasm, loosening as the man rips the bottle from his hand.

“Wine? What, were you going to celebrate with that chink boyfriend of yours?” The man spits, and Viktor feels a hot swell of rage burst in his chest.

“Don't call him that.” He says back, only realizing it after the words have left his mouth.

The men laugh.

“Let me have it.” One of them says, grabbing the wine bottle. He looks at the label, face twisting in disgust. “Expensive shit.” He mutters. “Guess they pay you queers good money to do all that gay twirling around the ice, huh?”

Viktor glares, trying again, unsuccessfully, to pull free.

“I think you might wanna cool it, sweetheart.” The man holding him breathes against his ear. “Your ours now, so you might wanna cool it.”

The man holding the wine scoffs, before without warning he smashes it against the ground, the glass shattering, the smell of alcohol filling the air a moment later.

Again the men laugh, and Viktor feels his eyes begin to sting, an awful sense of dread building up from the pit of his stomach, all too familiar. This was all too familiar. 

“... What do you want?” He forces himself to ask. It's a useless question, likely. He knows what they want. But he has a lot of cash on him, and maybe if he can convince them to just take it, they'll leave him alone.

“Want?” One of them asks. “What kinda' stupid question is that?”

“If you want money, you can have my wallet. It's in the left pocket of my...”

He doesn't get to finish the sentence.

The world explodes in pain and blinding light, the immediate taste of copper washing over his tongue and the world spinning in dizzying circles as his vision comes slowly back.

One of them had hit him, he thinks dazedly. One of them had...

“Shut up faggot!”

The man hits him again. Viktor sees it coming this time. It still sends him reeling, and he feels his knees give way under him. He would hit the ground if the man behind him weren't holding him up.

“We're gonna take your money anyway, you stupid cunt. Ain't got nothin' to do with what you say.”

The words are words he's heard countless times before. They still hurt. Would never stop hurting, he thinks. Like suddenly he can't breathe, and his eyes sting, even as he forces his face still, jaw clenched and mouth in a hard line.

Suddenly his phone dings, and Viktor feels a sickening drop down through his stomach.

The men hear it too, their faces twisting into almost lecherous expressions.

“Don't...” Viktor snaps without thinking as one of them begins reaching into his coat pocket.

It's Yuuri. He knows it is. Probably asking where he is. He doesn't want... he doesn't want them to see it. The men. He doesn't want them to do anything...

“What'd I just tell you, bitch?!” The man reaching for his phone suddenly has him by the face, meaty fingers digging into his cheeks, nails cutting. Viktor's eyes squeeze shut at the pain as his head is shoved backward, and he can do nothing as the man reaches again into his coat pocket, pulling his phone free.

He watches as the man's eyes scan over the message, his mouth twisting into a smirk.

“Your chink boyfriend wants to know where you are, Viktor.” He says, looking up and grinning. “Want me to tell him you're alright?” The man's voice is mocking.

Viktor doesn't say anything. His phone is locked. They won't be able to get in to send any kind of message to Yuuri. They won't be able to hurt him.

It's something the man with his phone realizes a moment later, and Viktor can see his face twist in frustration before he looks up at him, eyes burning with disdain.

“What's the pass code?” He asks.

Viktor's heart is beating so hard in his chest, he barely hears the words for the pounding of blood in his ears. He swallows hard, keeping his mouth shut.

“I asked what the fuckin' pass code is!” The man's face hardens with rage as he lunges forward, grabbing Viktor by the lapels of his coat, jerking him violently up. “Give it to me cunt!”

Viktor shakes his head, determination shoving down his fear.

“No.” He answers flatly. He won't let these men talk to Yuuri. It doesn't matter what they do to him. He won't let them speak one word of their filth to Yuuri.

He barely registers the movement then. Only sees the baseball bat come up, and the next instant he can't breathe.

There's a sharp, shocked gasp which, vague in the back of his mind, he knows belongs to him, and his knees buckle, hitting the ground hard as the man holding him up lets him go.

Nausea comes crashing down on him, and the surge of bile from the pit of his stomach comes too fast to stop, rushing up his throat. He throws up, and he stares, bemused and lost at the acrid vomit covering the snow, the stench of it turning his stomach again.

Distantly he registers the sound of laughter above him. 

He isn't given time to think on it.

Something cold and hard is abruptly against his throat, tightening fast as he's jerked backward.

Alarmed panic erupts in Viktor's brain as he realizes it's the chain. They've wrapped the chain around his throat. 

His hands lift, fingers scrambling desperately to find the metal links, to push under them and away from his throat. Only the links tighten more and more, cutting, raw pain, and he can't breathe at all now. He can't breathe!

He was going to be choked to death, he thinks frantically. He was going to...

The pressure against his throat is suddenly gone, and a desperate, ragged gasp escapes him, frenzied, desperate coughing wracking through his frame as he sucks madly for air, falling forward onto his hands.

And the world explodes into pain.

The blow against his back is paralyzing. He feels his body collapse beneath him, the cold of the snow against his face as it hits the ground.

The pain is too much. His brain screaming. Too much, too much. His nerves erupting, overcome.

Distantly he thinks, the baseball bat. They've hit him with the baseball bat. 

And then he thinks... 

I'm going to die...

His last thought, horror crashing down on him, vision tunneling, going black at the edges. Somewhere above, he hears more laughter. Vicious, hissed words. He can't make them out anymore. Doesn't know what they're saying.

The blows come down on him in waves, loud cracking in his ears and body burning in flames. Can't think anymore. Something horrible, he knows. But can't think. Just noise and pain and horror. The world dissolves in terror and his skull is cracked open then, eyes washing out in white, consuming light, rushing, screaming in his ears, and all at once he's deaf and blind.

The world fades from him.

He falls and falls and falls. 

Falls away to oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, just a warning for medical jargon and procedures in this chapter. I'm sure it's all wildly inaccurate, lol. Let me know what you think of the chapter if you get a chance and thank you so much to everyone, as always, for your support!

Yuuri is starting to panic.

It's a feeling too familiar to him. An awful, unwanted, lifelong companion. The sense of overwhelming panic and fear, curling up from the pit of his stomach, reaching up into his throat and closing it off with suffocation, head spinning in dizzying, frantic circles.

He needs to breathe. He needs to remember to breathe. To stay calm. He needs to stay calm. He tries to remember the breathing exercises Viktor had been working with him on. He needs to...

Viktor...

Viktor's been gone over an hour now. Okay. It's not that big of a deal, Yuuri tries to tell himself. It was a twenty minute walk to the store each way. So that would take 40 minutes. Add to that the time it must have taken him to find what he wanted at the liquor store, and it wasn't that strange. It wasn't.

… But Viktor isn't answering Yuuri's texts, and that was.

He hasn't answered any of Yuuri's texts for the last half hour, the last response from him saying he was on his way back, that he would be home soon, and Yuuri is starting to panic.

He's tried calling Viktor. He's tried calling him half a dozen times in half as many minutes. The phone keeps ringing out, going straight to voice mail, his fiance's cheerful voice driving a spike of fear through Yuuri's heart each time it sounds.

“Hi! You've reached Viktor Nikiforov! I can't come to the phone just now, but please leave a message and I'll...”

Yuuri hangs up, pacing back and forth. He reaches his hands up, fingers grasping his hair and pulling.

Why the hell wasn't Viktor answering his phone?! Yuuri had already left him three rambling messages. If Viktor got them, he was probably going to think Yuuri had lost his mind. If he got them and wasn't, for whatever reason, answering, Yuuri swore he was going to kill him himself. Viktor knew how anxious he could get. Why the hell would he do this to him then?! It doesn't make any sense. It wasn't like Viktor at all. Sure, Viktor could be forgetful, but he was never careless, and certainly never thoughtless. He was the sweetest, most positive person Yuuri had ever known. It was that sweetness and positivity which had largely given Yuuri the strength to believe in himself again. And so Yuuri know he would never intentionally cause distress like this to anyone.

He tries calling again. Again, it goes straight to voice mail, and Yuuri can feel the tears well up suddenly in his eyes. 

He pulls his glasses free, wiping viciously at them, his teeth grinding together.

Something was wrong. He knows it.

God... God, what does he do? What does he do!?

Okay, okay, he needs to stay calm. Needs to think.

Sitting here, waiting around and worrying wasn't helping anything. He knew his way to the store Viktor had said he was going to. He could go out, retrace Viktor's steps, try and find him...

Yeah, that seemed like the best thing to do. It was better than working himself into a frenzy, calling Viktor's phone over and over and getting no response.

That decides it for him.

“Makkachin, no. Stay.” He tells Viktor's dog as she leaps up from the couch, thinking no doubt he means to take her for a walk. “I'll be back soon. Just stay.” He tells her again as he puts his coat on, slipping into his boots and grabbing his keys. “I'll be back.”

He doesn't give Makkachin another chance to get excited before practically running out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind him before making his way out of the building, onto the silent, cold streets beyond.

//

“God damn it Viktor, why can't you ever just listen to me?” Yuuri mutters angrily to himself, his arms wrapped around his torso as he moves frantically down the sidewalks.

It was bitterly cold out here. Below zero for sure, Yuuri thinks. Snow was drifting down from the dark sky, a light wind blowing it at an angle. A bad storm was coming.

And Yuuri knows he's not really angry. He's scared. He's scared to death. Why hadn't Viktor listened to him? He hadn't wanted Viktor to go out alone. He'd told him so. Why had he let him then? Why hadn't he insisted on going with him? 

Question after question assault his brain as he quickens his steps, each moment past increasing the awful dread which had begun to lodge itself in his throat, twisting his stomach. Something had happened. God, he knows it. 

He pulls out his phone again, eyes ghosting over the time. 1:14 AM. He presses redial, bringing the phone to his ear, listening to it ring and ring and he knows there won't be any answer.

“Please, please Viktor, pick up...” he begs.

“Hi! You've reached Vikto...”

“Damn it!” Yuri curses, jamming the phone back in his pocket. “Viktor, where are you?!” Tears sting in his eyes again, his breaths becoming erratic. He's panicking again. He can't deal with this. He can't, God...

He can feel his stress levels rocketing out of control, a kind of sickness turning his stomach. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what he will do if he can't find Viktor. If he can't...

He turns the corner onto the next block, eyes looking down the road, and it's like his heart drops down to the pit of the earth.

There's something up ahead. Someone. A broken heap of a man lying in the snow, and Yuuri knows. He knows.

God no...

He's running before his mind can tell him to go, because he knows, and it's like some nightmare vision coming to life before his eyes with each step he takes nearer, and it's Viktor. It's Viktor lying there in the snow. It's him. It's him and no, no, no, God please, no...

And then he's there, right there at Viktor's side, and he's falling to his knees, and Viktor isn't moving and he's covered... covered in blood and God, oh God, God...

Yuuri begins sobbing and he can't stop it, can't control it, vicious, wracking sobs taking hold, seizing his body in convulsions.

“Viktor, Viktor, oh God, please... please, please...” he weeps helplessly, hands reaching out, shaking violently as they lay against Viktor's shoulder.

His clothes are torn and Yuuri can see the slow, seeping red through the thin material of his shirt, through his pants... Flecks of blood in his silver hair and where... where is his coat? Where is Viktor's coat? Yuuri knows he'd been... been wearing a coat when he left and now he's lying here in the snow, in this freezing cold wearing nothing but a thin dress shirt and... and his shoes are gone too, Yuuri realizes, his expensive, Italian leather gloves and oh God...

Vaguely he registers that Viktor's been robbed, or... he doesn't know. He doesn't know. And he's bleeding, he's...

Shaking hands reach out, trembling fingers lying against Viktor's cheek, and he's freezing. He's freezing to the touch, and Yuuri sobs loudly as he turns Viktor's head towards him, turns his face up off the ground.

There's something wrong. There's something wrong with his face. Like... like something's been crushed and, God... God... Yuuri can't tell through the smeared, thick mask of blood what it is, but something's wrong.

His face is barely recognizable for the hideous swelling already forming, skin is deathly pale, what Yuuri can see of it, his arms and legs limp like some horrible, broken puppet. Taking hold of his hand, and Yuuri sees the scraps and bruises all along Viktor's knuckles, covering his palms, the tips of his fingers seeming to turn blue. It's hypothermia, Yuuri thinks distantly, a wave of crushing terror ripping through him at the realization. Viktor was freezing to death out here!

“Viktor, oh God, please, please...”

He isn't dead. He can't be... please God, he can't be... 

Yuuri watches his chest for long, agonizing seconds and sees the shallow rise and fall and he knows he's breathing. He isn't dead, oh God...

What was he going to do? What was he going to do?! God almighty, he had to do something! He couldn't just sit here like this. He had to...

Emergency! He... he had to call emergency services. He needed an ambulance here right away. Somebody to help.

His hands are shaking so hard, he's barely able to unlock his phone and pull up the call screen, wracking his brain to remember what the number for emergency is here in Russia.

He nearly panics in his forgetfulness, before it comes to him suddenly, and he punches in the digits, bringing the phone to his ear, trying desperately to calm his frantic breathing. He reaches down as the phone rings, taking hold of Viktor's ice cold hand, squeezing it hard. Viktor isn't conscious at all, his face slack and unmoving, and Yuuri has to look away from him, overcome with grief and fear.

The line picks up, and a woman speaking Russian is suddenly in his ear.

Yuuri feels his panic surge again. He spoke very little Russian still, and he struggles desperately now to remember what small amount he did, trying frantically to convey to the woman over the line what the situation was.

“Please...” he starts, knowing his accent and wording must sound awful and broken. “M-my boyfriend is... h-he's b-been attacked, he... he nn-needs help, please...”

The woman on the other end begins asking him questions, and it's all Yuuri can do to concentrate on what she's saying, trying to piece it together word by word. He misses half of it, he thinks, but understands enough to know she's asked what his location is, and whether or not Viktor is conscious.

He gives her the information as best as he's able, trying to speak slowly and calmly so she'll understand.

He feels himself slump down when he hears her say an ambulance was on it's way. That it would be to him and Viktor in less than five minutes.

Tearfully he thanks her over and over, unable any longer to keep his sobs back.

All he can do then is wait, and he grips Viktor's limp hand in both of his own, bringing it to his face, pressing it against his cheek.

“It's going to be okay Vitya... it's going to be okay.” He promises aloud, even as awful, crushing doubt pervades his mind.

How could this have happened? Who would do this? Who would do this to Viktor, in Russia of all places? Why? When Viktor was a national hero here. He was the greatest figure skater Russia had ever produced. The greatest figure skater in history. It made no sense why someone would... 

Yuuri's eyes catch on something then. What looks like letters, written in the snow, a few feet from where Viktor lies. 

It's in Cyrillic, and it takes Yuuri a moment to work out what it spells.

When he does, he feels the edges of his vision go dark, a wave of horror washing through him in the awful, dawning realization.

“God hates fags.”

Yuuri turns aside, spilling hot, burning bile to the snow beneath, a wretched sob breaking free past his teeth, splitting the silence of the night in two.

//

It was meant to be a celebration, last night. 

Both him and Viktor winning their competitions, and it was meant to be a celebration. Meant to be a celebration of Viktor's new world records, especially, Yuuri thinks. 

It was meant to be...

The doctor is talking at him, and Yuuri is trying to focus on the words.

They wash over him like some eerie dream, and he thinks this can't be real.

“Do you want to sit?” The doctor asks him, and Yuuri feels dizzy, throat closing up in sudden, wretched fear and his eyes burn.

He's been sitting here for hours. Sitting in this horrible place, his mind on fire, no way to direct his torturous thoughts anywhere but in. Turning over and over and over. He'd thought he was going to scream. Scream and scream and never stop. But he'd only bitten down hard into his own arm and cried bitterly until his head pounded in a migraine and his eyes were dry as sandpaper.

He's always hated emergency rooms. Hated the suffering you saw in them. The extremes of human desperation and frailty and despair. 

It's daytime outside, he vaguely registers.

It had been pitch black out there when he and Viktor had arrived.

“Is he going to die?” Yuuri blurts, his voice half choked by a sob.

He watches the doctor's face tighten, expression grim and unhappy, and for a moment Yuuri feels faint with terror.

“No.” The doctor answers, and Yuuri collapses into the seat behind him. The relief is like a gust of wind knocking him sideways.

“But he would have, if you hadn't found him when you did.” The doctor continues, and Yuuri chokes out another sob, his eyes blind with tears. “Mr. Nikiforov was severely hypothermic when he was brought in, and suffering the onset of severe frostbite to his extremities.” The doctor levels him with a serious look. “You saved his life Mr. Katsuki.” 

Yuuri nods, and doesn't say what he's really thinking. That this was his fault. That this never would have happened to Viktor if he just hadn't let him go out alone.

“With that said, I want to make clear to you the seriousness of the situation here, and make sure you're prepared for what's ahead.”

“Oh God...” Yuuri chokes. He knew it was bad. He knew it, just from how broken and bloody Viktor had been. How cold and unmoving. Flashes of Viktor's hair come into his mind. Viktor's beautiful, silver hair, flecks of blood frozen in the strands...

“Mr. Nikiforov has suffered a severe beating, as I'm certain you understand. There's immense evidence of blunt force trauma across his entire body, including the head, which we believe is almost certainly the result of his being attacked with a weapon of some kind. We think in likelihood a wooden baseball bat. There... was also evidence that Mr. Nikiforov was choked, we think most likely with a metal chain wrapped round his throat. We found significant bruising on his larynx.”

Oh God, God, he can't... he can't handle this. He can't bear it. Viktor, oh God, his poor, sweet Viktor...

“Thank God though, from the CT scans we've found no real signs of brain swelling. But he's suffered a massive concussion, and the x-rays are showing a substantial fracture running from the base of his skull, up along the side and to his right orbital bone, which, unfortunately, has been crushed. As a precaution, we've placed him in an induced coma...” He pauses, seeming to hesitate. “There is the possibility of some memory loss, though again we can't be sure of anything until we pull him out of the coma.”

The words are reaching Yuuri's brain. He understands them, objectively. He understands what this man is saying to him. He grasps the seriousness of this man's tone. The grim expression on his face. He knows, somewhere in his brain, that all of this adds up to something terrible.

He can't bring himself to believe that any of this is real.

He's dreaming. This is a nightmare. He's going to wake up. He's going to wake up, and Viktor is going to be lying beside him, whole and healthy and okay. Viktor is okay. He's okay.

The doctor doesn't seem to notice Yuuri's denial, and keeps talking.

“We're going to do everything we can to save the vision is his right eye. Right now we aren't sure. There's also the possibility that Mr. Nikiforov could experience partial or total deafness in his right ear, as the drum was ruptured from the impact of the blow to his head.”

The doctor pauses then, his eyes leaving Yuuri's face, fixing for a moment on the floor below, and Yuuri's head spins. He's bracing himself, Yuuri realizes detachedly. He's getting ready to say something horrible. As if all this isn't horrible enough already.

He sees the doctor swallow, his eyes lifting and fixing again on Yuuri's face.

“In terms of everything else, Mr. Nikiforov has suffered numerous broken bones, including nearly all the ribs on the right side of his rib cage, one on his left. Numerous, full breaks in his left arm, somehow only minor fractures in his right, but, unfortunately, multiple breaks in his right and left femur, which did require surgery, as well as his right tibia and a broken right patella. His collar bone has been shattered, and he's suffered a ruptured disk in his back. Beyond all that, obviously, there's severe bruising and contusions covering a large portion of his body.” He stops again. Swallows again. Eyes turning away again, and no, this isn't real. This isn't. It's a nightmare, and Yuuri is going to wake up and all of this will have been some perverse dream. “The internal damage could have been worse, given the weapon used and the severity of the beating...” The doctor starts again, and he's looking at a chart in his hands. He isn't looking at Yuuri anymore. “As it is, however, he's... Mr. Nikiforov suffered a ruptured spleen and a collapsed left lung, both of which required immediate emergency surgery. Luckily we already had his medical history on file here and he's made it through the surgeries well. It doesn't hurt anything that he's in such tremendously good shape..”.

Good shape... Viktor was in good shape. Of course he was. He'd just broken the world record in the short and free programs for mens skating. He'd broken the combined world record by almost three points. He was the greatest figure skater that had ever lived, he...

Yuuri can see the doctor's mouth moving. He even thinks, distantly, that he hears the words. Somewhere, he's hearing them. But it's like he's under water. Everything muted and off center, and the light headedness comes up on him so suddenly, he barely registers it before his vision black out.

When he next becomes aware, he's looking up at the ceiling, a bright light shining in his eyes, blinding him, before it moves away and the doctor's face is above him, looking down at him with a tight, concerned expression.

He's on the floor, Yuuri thinks after a moment of confusion. How did he get on the floor?

“Mr. Katsuki?” The doctor's voice comes into focus. “Are you alright?”

No, he thinks. No, I'm not...

“W-what happened?” He asks instead, his voice trembling.

“You fainted.” The doctor tells him, and he's helping Yuuri to sit back up, his hand on the nape of his neck. “I caught you before you could hit your head.”

Yuuri looks away.

Before he hit his head. And the doctors words come flooding back to him. Viktor had been beaten half to death with a baseball bat. They'd hit his head. They'd cracked his skull, they'd...

“... Is he going to be able to skate again?” 

The question comes unbidden. He hadn't meant to ask it. Doesn't even know why he did. Why that, of all things, came suddenly to the forefront of his mind.

Skating was Viktor's life. It was his too. It was all either of them had ever really known, before meeting each other... before...

Yuuri doesn't know what it would do to Viktor, if he could never, and right when he was seemingly still in his prime, when...

The doctor looks at him with pity and Yuuri hates it.

“I don't know.” He answers honestly. “I think, Mr. Katsuki, that's probably a question best left to later down the line. Right now we need to be focusing on just making sure Mr. Nikiforov lives.”

The tears Yuuri had been struggling to hold back come rushing forth, blinding his eyes, pouring hot and awful down his cheeks. He lifts a hand, biting down on the knuckles of his fist, trying uselessly to stifle the sob which breaks past his teeth.

The doctor puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Listen, I know this has been really rough. We're prepping Mr. Nikiforov for surgery on his orbital bone now. He's going to be here in the ER for many hours yet, and I know you've been here all night. I would suggest you go back home and try to get some sleep...”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“No...” he wipes at his eyes. “No, I can't. I can't just leave him here.”

The doctors sighs.

“Alright. I understand. If you really don't want to go home, I can have one of our nurses set a room with a bed up for you, here at the hospital. But... you really should try to get some sleep. Wearing yourself down isn't going to do you or Viktor any good, and... I assume there's people you're going to have to call. Family and friends...”

He was Viktor's family, Yuuri doesn't say. Doesn't say that Viktor's parents had abandoned him when they'd discovered he was gay. Doesn't say how they'd kicked him out of his own home when he'd been fourteen years old. Doesn't say... doesn't say anything.

Only nods, and the doctor nods back, before standing and leaving, and Yuuri watches him go.

There's a woman at his side a moment later, taking him by the arm and picking him up to his feet. One of the nurses, he thinks distantly. 

He lets himself be led by her to some sterile, cold room. Watches, detached and numb as she makes up a bed with sheets and a blanket and a pillow.

The doctor had been right. He needed to call people.

Needed to call Yakov, and Yuri, and his own mother back home. He needed to. Oh God, he doesn't want to. He doesn't want them to feel what he's feeling.

The weight of his exhaustion is finally starting to pull him down, the lids of his eyes like leaden weights, his limbs stiff and aching. The inside of his mouth feels like sandpaper, his eyes red and itching from so much crying.

He needed to sleep. But he had to call first. He had to call everyone. Tell them what had happened, before they found out some other way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always guys, thank you so much for all your support! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. If you have a chance, please leave your thoughts in the comments section below!

_“And now, some tragic news coming to us from the sporting world. We're receiving reports that three time Olympic gold medalist Viktor Nikiforov has been hospitalized following what authorities are describing as a brutal physical assault on the streets of his hometown of St. Petersburg, Russia, early this morning. _

_Nikiforov, a three time Olympic gold medalist, six time world champion and six time Grand Prix champion, is widely considered to be the greatest figure skater of all time, winning his first Olympic gold at the astonishingly young age of 17 and known, not only for his incredible consistency on the ice, but for the unmatched skill, artistry and beauty of his skating. Now at 29, generally considered an advanced age for a skater, Nikiforov, in just the past two days, won gold at The Russian National championships, breaking three world records in the process. _

_Anticipation for this year's coming Olympic Games had been high, with many expecting Nikiforov to take home an unheard of fourth gold medal, adding to his already unprecedented number of World and Olympic titles._

_Beside his athletic accomplishments, Nikiforov is largely known for being an openly gay man, most notably for his relationship with and engagement to fellow competitive skater Yuuri Katsuki, a Japanese figure skater for whom Nikfiorov also serves as coach, and who under Nikiforov's guidance has seen a resurgence in his own competitive career, taking home gold in his own, separate international competition at the Internationaux de France, as well as numerous other first place finishes since the start of the current season. Katsuki broke the world record for the men's free skate program in this years Grand Prix Skate America competition, where he took home gold, as well as two years previous, in the Grand Prix Final, where he ended up taking home silver. Two scores which Nikiforov broke himself over this past weekend. _

_Nikiforov's and Kasuki's open relationship is of particular note, given the known policies of Russia regarding homosexuality. Same sex unions, indeed homosexual proclivity in general in Russia is treated as a violation of the law, and national polling there has found a large majority of the population to in some degree oppose the particular lifestyle. _

_Details of the attack are, at the moment, scarce, but we've been told by police that the attack is being treated as a hate crime, presumably in relation to Nikiforov's homosexuality, and that authorities are now searching for whoever might have perpetrated this horrible cri...”_

“Turn that off!”

Yakov sees the group of skaters jump at his raised voice, turning, their eyes wide as they stare at him.

One of them grabs the remote and shuts the television off.

They look like children who've been caught doing something they're not supposed to. Many of them were children, Yakov reminds himself. 13, 14 years old. 

To all of them, Viktor was a hero.

Yakov knows why.

He'd always been so good with kids, Viktor. Always knew how to talk to them in a way Yakov never knew.

… More than that, Viktor was kind. The kindest person Yakov had ever known, he was ... is... he is. He wasn't dead, Yakov tells himself viciously.

God, he doesn't know if he can do this...

“I don't want you watching the news on this. National or international.” He tells the students. “You'll only upset yourselves.”

One of the boys stands up from where the group is gathered, sitting on the floor. Yakov watches his face twist, tears welling in his eyes.

“W-what did they do to Viktor?” He sobs, not even trying to control it. “What happened to him?!”

It's like it sets off a wave through the group, all of them at once beginning to cry.

God, he can't...

“Listen to him!” Yuri comes up behind Yakov, snapping at the group. “Don't watch the fucking news! Viktor's going to be okay!”

Yakov turns, staring at Yuri, bemused. Taken aback.

Not ten minutes ago, Yuri had had a full blown meltdown in Yakov's office. 

The old coach had seen Yuri get angry more times than he could remember. The boy had a temper on him like a hurricane, explosive and violent, and he would lose it, it seemed, at the drop of a hat, going from calm to raging mad in a matter of seconds, usually over nothing at all. 

Yakov had even seen him cry, on occasion. Something Yuri had sworn him to secrecy to each time.

He'd never seen Yuri lose it like he had today.

Yuuri had called Yakov on the phone. It had been just past six in the morning. Not unusual, except Yakov had assumed he wouldn't hear either from Viktor or Yuuri for the next few days, given the intensity of both their schedules over the past two weeks. 

The last he'd spoken to Vitya had been at the airport, after touching down in St. Petersburg, and he'd told Yakov he just wanted to spend some time with Yuuri at their apartment, which meant he would probably be out of communication for the next three or four days before getting back to practice. 

Still, it hadn't been enough to alarm Yakov. He hadn't thought twice about putting the phone on speaker. Not until he'd heard Yuuri's voice. Heard the shaking sobs barely repressed.

Yuri had rolled his eyes at first, probably thinking Yuuri was having another of his anxiety attacks. But Yakvo had immediately felt on edge. He wasn't Yuuri's coach. There wouldn't have been any reason for the boy to call him, unless...

_“Yakov... V-Viktor's in... he's in the hospital. He... h-he's been... been attacked...”_

_Yuri sits up from where he'd been lounging lazily in the chair across from Yakov, ramrod straight, eyes wide and vibrating. Yakov sees the color drain from his face immediately. Feels his own heart crash to the pit of his stomach._

_“What?” Yuri says. And he's shaking his head. “No, he...”_

_Yakov feels his hands ball to fists on the table, his teeth grind together._

_No, it... this hasn't happened in years, he thinks. Viktor hadn't... there hadn't been an incident in a long time. He'd thought... he'd thought, because Viktor had only gained greater recognition, because he'd made his country so proud, he'd thought... _

_This couldn't happen anymore._

_Yuuri's words take too long to really register._

_The hospital? _

_Why would he...?_

_Why would he need...?_

_“What do you mean, he's in the hospital?” Yakov asks. “How bad is he?”_

_The pause on the other end is too long. Too long._

_Yuri stands from his seat, leaning on the table, staring at the phone._

_“Answer!” He snaps, and Yakov hears the terrible wavering in the boys voice. The loss of control already, and he thinks this can't be happening. “What happened to Viktor? What did they do!?”_

Yuuri had told them. He'd told them through wretched weeping, and Yakov had felt a terrible cold inside. A dreadful cold.

Yuri had begun to sob, violent and open in a way Yakov had never seen from him, tearing at the strands of his hair. And he'd known what Viktor meant to Yuri. He'd known, despite Yuri always snapping at Vitya, calling him old, hurling lazy, harmless insults at him, threatening to destroy him in competition... Yakov had known how much Yuri cared for Viktor, in some abstract way. But he hadn't understood. Not really. Not until that moment.

“He isn't dead Katsuki!” Yuri had cried, screaming at the phone at nearly the top of his lungs. “Tell me he isn't dead!”

And through his own tears, Katsuki had told them no. Viktor was alive, but it was bad. It was really, really bad.

“We're on our way. Which hospital is he at?” Yakov had somehow found his voice to ask, and he couldn't understand the numbness he was feeling. The surreal detachment. Like he was removed from all this. Like it couldn't really be happening.

Yuuri had told them where. But Viktor was in surgery right now, he'd said. That it would be hours before he was moved from emergency to the ICU. Yakov had told him it didn't matter. That they would be there soon, and Yuuri had blubbered out desperate thank you's through his tears.

Yuri storms past Yakov now, towards the exit, and Yakov repeats his warning to the other skaters not to watch the news, to wait to hear from him, before following after the boy.

It's not yet seven AM by the time they reach the hospital, one of the nurses directing them to a room which Yuuri is apparently using to sleep.

He isn't sleeping though, when Yakov and Yuri walk in. He's sitting up on a makeshift mattress, his head held in his hands. Yakov knocks on the door, and Yuuri's head lifts, his face a blotched, teary mess.

Yakov watches him stumble from the bed, across the space. 

He throws his arms around Yuri first, hugging him tightly, fresh tears forming in his eyes and slipping down his face.

Yuri hugs him back, and Yakov looks away.

He doesn't refuse when Yuuri goes to hug him, holding the Japanese boy back, though he stands stiff and awkward. 

He's never really gotten used to hugging Yuuri. Hasn't, he feels, really gotten to know him, the way he probably should.

Yuuri made Vitya happy. That's all Yakov ever felt he needed to know of the boy.

“Any news?” Yakov asks when Yuuri at last lets him go. 

Yuuri wipes at his face, shaking his head.

“No, it's... he's still in surgery. It's going to be several hours before he's out and...”

He stops, and Yakov watches him lift a hand, pressing it over his mouth as he turns away.

“... Oh God...” he chokes, shaking his head. “I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I can't... it's... it's my fault this happened. It's my fault. I shouldn't have...”

Yuri reaches out without warning, grabbing Yuuri by the wrist and jerking him towards himself.

“What are you talking about Katsuki?!” He snarls. “What do you mean it's your fault?”

“Yura...” Yakov warns, but the boy ignores him, shaking Yuuri's arm.

“What happened?!” He demands.

“We... we were going to celebrate. Mine and Viktor's wins, we... he wanted some wine and w-we didn't have any, so he said he was... he went to the store to get some. I didn't want him to go. I said I didn't want him to go. It was late, and I had a bad feeling, but he...” Yuuri stops again, more tears slipping down his face. “He said he would be alright. That he would be back soon, but... I should have insisted... I shouldn't have let him go. He wouldn't have gone if I'd just...”

Yakov reaches out, placing a heavy hand on Yuuri's shoulder, stilling him.

“... It isn't your fault. Katsuki. It isn't.” 

Yuuri looks up at him, his eyes naked with pain.

“... I found him. It.... I found Vitya, on the street. I knew s-something was wrong because he wasn't... he wasn't calling me. You know... you know how much Vitya loves to talk and he wouldn't... he never wants to worry anyone. So I knew, and I went looking for him... I found him. He w-was just... just lying there in the snow and they'd... they'd taken his j-jacket and he was so c-cold and... God... He was ss-so... so broken. He was just so broken, oh God...”

Yuri turns away, striding to the opposite end of the room. He presses his hands against the wall, his head down, and Yakov can see him breathing, too fast and heavy.

And still Yakov feels nothing but this horrible numbness. Distant, detached nothing. 

Like none of this is real.

Only some horrible dream from which he would soon wake.

//

He doesn't know why it's this that does it. 

That finally breaks whatever fog had settled over his mind, keeping him, until now, at some sort of remove. That had kept him from really feeling.

He doesn't know why it's this.

Viktor is lying there. 

Yakov looks at his face. He thinks, absurdly, that it looks like a bushel of blueberries, and then the tears well up so fast in his eyes, his throat closed off and choking, he doesn't even realize it before suddenly he's sobbing. Broken and loud and he turns away, shoving his knuckles past his teeth to muffle the noise.

Vitya... oh, Vitya, he thinks. Vitya, who was as a son to him, and it's too much. 

He's lying there, arms and legs lifted and encased in white casts, hooked up to beeping, whirring machines, wires running from his arms and chest and his beautiful face swollen and bruised beyond recognition, half covered by a plastic mask, just so he can breathe, and white gauze wrapped round over is eye, and red seeping through. So much red seeping through everywhere, blooming bright and hideous through the gauze covering his arms and chest and everywhere, and it's too much.

It's been eleven hours since he and Yuri had arrived here to the hospital. They'd had bed's set up for them in Yuuri's room. Yakov isn't sure if he'd slept at all. There'd been moments where he'd lapsed into something resembling unconsciousness. But each time he'd woken with a violent start, his mind lost and scrambling to remember where he was... what had happened... the wretched reality taking too long to settle in and remind him...

He doesn't know if either of the boys had either. Eleven hours, and finally, Viktor had been moved from emergency to the ICU. Finally they'd allowed the three of them in to see him.

Yakov nearly wishes they hadn't.

He doesn't know what he'd been expecting. 

Maybe, in the back of his mind, he'd half expected Vitya to be sitting up, smiling bright and brilliant at them. He'd be sitting there, bright and brilliant, and wave excitedly like a small child. Like he always did.

“Yuur! Yakov! Yurio!” He would beam. “Hello!”

Vitya, who was the bravest person Yakov had ever known. Who saw so much good and beauty, even when, by so many, he'd been treated with so much ugliness. By the very people meant to love him without condition. Who smiled so much at everything, at everyone, and laughed and believed and no matter what, no matter what, would never stop believing. In better things, in a better world, a better life. Never stopped believing in joy.

He half expected, maybe... maybe hadn't really believed it possible, to see Vitya like this.

To see him lying there, silent and frail and wrecked.

He isn't awake. He doesn't wave to them, or call their names, or say hello.

He says nothing at all. Nothing. Just lies there, still and small. God, he looks so small. 

The room is quiet as death but for the horrible beeping of the machines. Sterile and cold. 

Not like Vitya. Not like Yakov's boy.

Yuuri stands beside Viktor's bed, saying nothing, his hands balled to white knuckled fists at his sides. 

Yura stands just inside the doorway to the room, frozen there like he can't move, his eyes fixed and wide on Viktor's unmoving form.

The doctor comes in. He starts talking. Yakov barely understands a word he's saying.

“We have him in an induced coma.” He says. “The surgeries went well, though we won't know for some time the lasting impact of the injuries sustained. There was significant damage caused to the retina of his right eye due to loosened fragments of his crushed orbital bone rattling around, and we can't be sure of how that's going to effect the vision in that eye until later testing. The same goes for the hearing in his right ear. A ruptured ear drum can often result in permanent hearing loss, though to what extent, it's hard to say. It's just a matter of having to wait. If his condition holds stable, we think we'll be able to bring him out of the coma in the next few days. After that, we can focus on the process of recovery. I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to be difficult. Mr. Nikiforov has sustained several, very serious injuries, including multiple fractures and breaks to many of his bones, which will in itself require months of physical therapy before he's able to walk normally. It's not... really garaunteed Mr. Nikforov will be able to regain a full range of motion at this point. There's a strong possibility that he'll end up with a permanant limp, given the damage to the bones in his legs...”

The doctor pauses, and Yakov feels sick.

How was Viktor supposed to skate again if he couldn't even walk? Skating had been that boy's entire life, and now... now it sounded like it would be robbed from him. Oh God...

“In terms of the emotional toll of... this sort of thing...” the doctor pauses again, hesitating on his next words.

“You mean him getting beat almost to death by a bunch of homophobic pieces of shit!?” Yuri suddenly shouts, and he's got tears streaming down his cheeks, his face twisted in rage and horror. “Why won't you just say it!? Fuck all this! Fuck this God damned country! Fuck all of them!”

He doesn't wait for any kind of response, turning and storming out of the room.

Yakov thinks, for a moment, he should follow him out. Go check on him. See if he was okay. It's an absurd thought. 

Of course he wasn't okay.

“... I'm sorry.” He hears the doctor say.

“... I need to go check on Makka.” Yuuri says suddenly. 

Yakov looks at him. He's still standing by Viktor's bedside. Still looking down at him. Even from where he stands, Yakov can see him trembling. 

“She's... she's been alone for almost a whole day, I can't... can't leave her alone any longer. She needs a walk and... and food...” Yuuri goes on, and he sounds distant. Like he's talking to himself. “Oh God, Viktor... I don't...” His voice is nearly soundless, shaking. 

“I'll go.” Yakov says. 

At last Yuuri looks up, turning. Tears stand out clear in his eyes.

“I need to take Yura out of here for a while anyway.” Yakov says. “I'll get Makkachin and take her to my place. Give her a walk and food. You should stay here with Vitya Yuuri.”

For a moment, Yuuri looks like he's almost going to protest, a look of uncertainty washing over his features. 

But then his shoulders drop in relief. The tears in his eyes slip free, and he lifts a hand, wiping them away.

“Do you... you know the code into the building?” He asks.

Yakov nods.

“Of course.”

“And you have a key to get into the apartment?”

“Of course.” Yakov repeats. “Vitya's always made sure I can get in if I need to.”

For an instant, Yuuri's face twists in such naked grief, and Yakov feels his own eyes burn viciously, barely able to school his own features into flat expressionlessness. 

“... Thank you.” Yuuri says after a moment.

Yakov only nods.

“We'll be back later. Call me if anything happens before then.”

“... Yeah.” 

Yakov turns then. 

He makes sure not to look at Viktor. His broken body lying there, still and silent as death. 

He makes his way from the room, and tries not to think of anything at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always you guys, all my thanks and gratitude for all of you who have read, left reviews and/or kudos! I can't tell you how much I appreciate every one of you, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! Let me know what you think if you have a chance please!

Three days later, they begin slowly to take Viktor out of his coma.

The doctor had explained to them what to expect.

It still does nothing to prepare Yuuri for what he's seeing.

In the days leading up, they'd had, several times a day, to draw the fluid off of Viktor's lungs. A horrible procedure of them having to insert what looked to Yuuri like a massive needle into what they told him was the pleural space between his lungs and chest wall, drawing the fluid up in a slow, agonizing process.

Yuuri had never been exposed to any kind of medical procedure more serious than a broken left wrist, when he'd been a kid. His career as a skater had been, luckily, mostly injury free.

He realizes, as he thinks it, he doesn't really know much about Viktor's medical history. He doesn't really know what injuries he's suffered.

There were some scars on Viktor's body. Not many. Typical of what you might see from sports related injuries. Some scarring on his knees from surgeries, some scarring which Yuuri recognized as a torn rotator cuff. That was about it.

He realizes he's never asked if there had been a time in Viktor's life when he'd been really sick, or had needed to be hospitalized, mainly because Viktor himself had never mentioned anything like that, and so Yuuri had just assumed...

But there was the way Yurio had been acting these past two days. Beyond his obvious distress. Some of the things he had said. Which Yuuri had caught him muttering to himself.

Yuuri had been left with the unsettling impression that something like this had happened before to Viktor. 

It couldn't have been like this though, Yuuri tells himself. Because it would have been reported on the news. Like it was now. All over the fucking news. A mob of media parked outside the hospital.

It doesn't mean something like this hadn't happened though. Some sort of... bullying.

Viktor was gay. He was openly gay. In Russia. Had been openly gay since he was sixteen, seventeen years old. 

It wasn't that something like this had possibly happened before. It was more that it was probable. Yuuri doesn't know why that hadn't occurred to him until now.

Maybe, he thinks, because Viktor was so impossibly upbeat. The way he was... it made you think he couldn't possibly have ever experienced a single moment of pain or sadness in his life. Even though Yuuri knew that wasn't true at all. 

His own parents had rejected him when they'd found out he was gay. That was a kind of pain Yuuri couldn't even begin to imagine.

Viktor had told him about it with his usual, cheerful demeanor. Like it wasn't a big deal. Yuuri had known better than to believe that. Viktor would sometimes smile to cover up what he really felt. But you could always see it in his eyes. And there had been grief so deep in Viktor's eyes that day, when he'd told Yuuri that, Yuuri had found himself later, locked in the bathroom, crying for the pain he knew Viktor was in.

And yet Viktor was the most positive person Yuuri had ever met. A genuine positivity which was infectious. Which rubbed off on you, whether you wanted it to or not. 

Viktor smiled constantly. When he did, it ended up making you smile. You couldn't help it. You didn't even want to. 

Yuuri sometimes wondered how anyone could have that much true kindness in them. But Viktor did. 

He had in him the warmest, brightest light.

He treated everyone as if they had that same bright light in them too. 

Believed in you, even when you didn't believe in yourself.

Yuuri had experienced that first hand. It was because of it that Yuuri had found the confidence to win.

God, why had this happened to Viktor? Why, why!? He didn't deserve it. God, he didn't....

It seems to take too long, too long as they bring Viktor up from his coma.

Yuuri watches, Yakov and Yurio by his side.

He can feel the tension in him spiking, his body trembling with barely suppressed anxiety. He clenches his jaw, fingers digging into his arms as he folds them tight over his chest.

Viktor's face is slack and unmoving, the oxygen mask still covering his nose and mouth, the hard plastic fogging and unfogging with each inhale and exhale of breath.

Yuuri barely manages to quiet the gasp which catches in his throat when he sees Viktor's one visible eye begin to flutter. When he sees Viktor's fingers spasm almost violently.

He isn't prepared for the crease between brows as they draw together.

Isn't prepared for the sudden, deep lines which etch into Viktor's previously expressionless face. 

For the sharp, ragged gasp which fills the room as Viktor sucks in a breath. 

He isn't prepared for the thick tears which well up in the corner of Viktor's eye, blood red as they slip free, rolling down over his temple, catching in the silver strands of his hair.

Or the weak sound pushing past Viktor's teeth. A nearly soundless, trembling sob.

His fingers continue to spasm, curling weakly against the sheets of his bed.

He's in pain, Yuuri thinks desperately. Oh, he's in pain.

He's woken up to nothing but pain...

“Why is he crying blood!?” Yurio snaps, fear naked in his voice. He's staring at Viktor with those same, wide eyes from before. He looks sick with shock and horror.

“It's nothing to be alarmed by.” The doctor reassures them. “Just broken capillaries in the retina. It should clear up after about a week or so.”

Even with Viktor's eyes barely opening, half lidded still, Yuuri can see the deep red which has replaced the whites of his eyes, the vibrant blue of his iris all the more stark against it. It looks terrifying. 

“He's in pain!” Yuuri snaps, his heart beating painfully hard inside his chest, blood rushing in his ears.

The doctor nods.

He looks calm and Yuuri doesn't understand how he can be so calm when Viktor is in so much pain! When he's crying because he hurts so much.

“We've got him hooked to the morphine drip.” He says, like that's supposed to make everything alright.

“But he's still in pain!” Yuuri nearly shouts. “Look at him! He's in pain!”

“I know.” The doctor answers, still in that horrible, calm tone. “I don't want to give him too much of a dose right now when we're bringing him up. I need to get him level and clear headed for a while longer. Once we're sure everything's okay, we'll give him a higher dose.”

Yuuri's mouth comes open to protest more, because he can't bear this. He can't bear to see Viktor hurting like this. Only suddenly there's a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he turns, seeing Yakov looking at him. The old coach's face is tight with stress, but he shakes his head quietly.

“Vitya is strong.” He says softly. “He'll be okay.”

Yuuri's eyes burn viciously.

He wants to yell that Viktor shouldn't have to be strong. That he shouldn't have to be going through any of this. 

But he doesn't. He resigns himself, his teeth coming together hard as he struggles to control himself. 

If Viktor was strong, then he needed to be too. He needed to be that for Viktor, who had always been strong for Yuuri.

He feels torn in two directions as, with the passing minutes, Viktor gains greater cognizance. Both relieved to see Viktor conscious and awake and alive, devastated to see him suffering so openly, helpless to stop it. To even offer his fiance any semblance of comfort.

Viktor sobs softly, bloody tears continuing to form and fall from his eyes.

Yuuri doesn't think he knows what's going on. Where he is. He doesn't think Viktor knows that he, or Yakov or Yurio are even here.

All he knows, Yuuri thinks, is pain and probably fear, and God, God, he's never wanted so badly to go to Viktor and just hold him.

And it's surreal, Yuuri thinks.

Viktor rarely cried. He rarely showed any outward expression of sadness, or fear, or anger. 

Seeing him this vulnerable, this out of control, was bizarre, and off-putting in the worst kind of way.

It's when Viktor tries to reach up to his own face, like he wants to tear the mask away, that the doctor finally reaches out, taking gentle hold of his wrist, bringing his arm back down and beginning to speak.

“Hi there, Mr. Nikiforov...” he starts, his voice low.

Viktor blinks rapidly, his eyes shifting towards the sound of the doctor's voice. 

He stares up at the man, uncomprehending, and Yuuri can see the naked fear in his gaze.

He sees Viktor swallow, his face lining in more pain.

“... Where...? W-where am I?” He asks, and his voice comes out as hardly a whisper, the normally smooth timbre reduced to cracked dust, trembling and weak. He asks in Russian, and Yuuri knows Viktor would speak in Russian when he felt overwhelmed by something. When he would lose hold of English or French, because his brain was overloaded, and he couldn't calm himself enough to find the words in any other language but his own, to remember what they were.

He sees, in the periphery of his vision, Yuri turn his face away from the scene.

The doctor smiles tightly at Viktor.

“Mr. Nikiforov, you're in the Regional Clinical Hospital, in St. Petersburg. I don't know how much you remember.”

Viktor is looking up at the doctor with lost eyes.

“... Regional Clinical...?” he breathes, and he sounds so uncertain. Confused.

The doctor nods, still smiling tightly.

“That's right Mr. Nikiforov. You were brought in by... I believe your fiance, Mr. Katsuki. You were unconscious when you were brought in. Do you... recall what happened? Before?”

Viktor blinks, more tears slipping down his temples. His face is rigid with pain.

“... Yuuri?”

Yuuri can't stand it anymore.

“I'm right here Vitya! Honey, I'm right here!”

Viktor's head turns, and at first, Yuuri doesn't think he sees him.

“God, Viktor, I'm right here...” Yuuri can't help the sob which slips past his teeth, and he steps forward, unable to keep himself back anymore.

He can see the shock which clouds in Viktor's eye. He can see when he realizes Yuuri is really there.

And he sees Viktor's expression crumple then. The way his face just seems to... fall.

“Yuuri...” he breathes, and his voice trembles, weak and nearly soundless.

Yuuri stumbles, and he's falling forward, reaching out and taking hold of Viktor's face in his hands.

“I know... I know Vitya, oh, God, it's okay... it's okay now...” Yurri weeps, and he presses kisses to Viktor's forehead, over and over.

Nobody stops him. Nobody pulls him away, even as Yuuri thinks the doctor and nurses must want to. Probably want Viktor to calm down because this can't be good... 

But he's in so much pain. So much pain, and Yuuri doesn't know what it is that happened. He doesn't know what those men did to Viktor. Not really. What they said to him, how it happened. What Viktor felt when... oh God... he must have been so scared. Oh, his love... he must have been so afraid, and he'd been alone, alone, and God Yuuri can't stand it... he can't stand to think of it...

“I'm sorry Viktor. I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” He repeats again and again, because he doesn't know what else to say. Doesn't know how to fix this. Doesn't know how to make Viktor understand how sorry he is other than to tell him over and over and over again, as if that will somehow make this better. As if it will change anything at all. Make it so they can somehow go back in time and Yuuri can make Viktor stay home with him. Make him stay. Not let him go out there on the streets all alone to get beaten half to death because... because why? Why? Because he was born gay? Because it didn't matter to some people how good and kind and sweet and generous Viktor was? Because it didn't matter to them how Viktor would do anything to help you. How he would find a way to help you, no matter what it took. Would offer all he had just to give you what you needed, if even just in that moment. How he would look for the good in everything. In everyone. And just to see you smile, just that, it was enough to make it all worth it for him. To know he'd made it even just a little better for you... that was enough for him, and he didn't want anything else in return. Nothing. 

None of that mattered to these people.

Only that Viktor had been born feeling an attraction to the same sex. 

For that, they'd nearly killed him. For that, they may have destroyed his entire life. 

God, what kind of world was this they lived in, where things like this happened? What was wrong with it, God?

Yuuri wants to hug him. He wants to put his arms around Vitya and pull him close and never let him go.

Viktor loved hugging. He loved to give hugs and receive hugs more than any person Yuuri had ever known. The most physically affectionate person he'd ever known. 

And there was always such... almost a desperation to the way Viktor would hug Yuuri. So often Yuuri could feel him trembling in his arms. 

He doesn't think he'd understood how lonely Viktor had been before then. How starved for affection.

He wants to hug him now, but he can't, because of all the wires and tubes and everything helping to just keep Viktor alive and stable. 

It isn't fair. None of this is fair.

Like it isn't fair when the doctor finally touches Yuuri's shoulder, telling him quietly that he needed to look Viktor over.

Yuuri nods, pressing his forehead against Viktor's a long moment, before forcing himself to pull away.

“I'm right here Viktor.” He promises. “I'm not going anywhere.”

He feels Yakov's hand on his shoulder once more as he steps back. Sees the old coach nod towards him, his expression uncharacteristically soft, almost grateful. 

Yuuri can't know what he's thinking. Can't know what he's going through.

He had practically raised Viktor himself, along with his wife. Had taken him in to live with him in their home when Viktor had been only 13 years old. Because Viktor had had no where else to go then. 

Yuuri knows Viktor was like a son to Yakov.

Yurio has turned fully away by now, his back to Viktor, and Yuuri knows how hard this is on him too.

Yurio put on an act of dismissivness all the time. Especially toward Viktor. He would act put upon and annoyed and embarrassed by Viktor's displays of affection toward him, and insult Viktor constantly, calling him old and washed up and overrated. Viktor would just smile at him fondly, because he knew, like everyone knew, Yurio didn't mean any of it at all.

He loved Viktor. Cared about Viktor in a way that was beyond words. Yuuri saw it in the way Yurio would look at Viktor with pure admiration in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. In the way Yurio would ask after Viktor constantly, trying to couch it in an offhanded tone of mild interest. But Yuuri could always hear the genuine concern underneath. He worried about Viktor, and Yuuri had never completely understood why. Viktor was so capable at... it seemed everything. But Yurio saw something in him, or... or knew something about him that made him worry.

Maybe it was this? Maybe something had happened before that Yuuri never knew about. 

The thought of Viktor being bullied seemed impossible in so many ways to him. 

Viktor was all confidence and charisma. Ridiculously good looking. Men and women both seemed to throw themselves at his feet wherever he went. He spoke and carried himself with so much sophistication and sureness...

But in some ways, as Yuuri had begun to learn the longer he was with Viktor, that confidence and charm was for display. A persona Viktor put on for the public, and for his fellow competitors.

When he was alone with Yuuri, there was a softness to Viktor... even, in some ways, an insecurity.

Viktor said things sometimes which made Yuuri think he was afraid of being left behind. Like he actually believed Yuuri would leave him someday. Like, deep down, he didn't really believe he was good enough for Yuuri.

The notion was absurd. Impossible to wrap his mind around. 

Viktor was the literal definition of a winner. The ultimate winner. It made no sense that he would think of himself as not good enough for anyone.

And yet, his own parents had rejected him. Hadn't they? 

And, Yuuri recalls then, of Viktor's past relationships, he'd only ever spoken of them as flings. He'd never told Yuuri of any relationship which had been really, truly serious. Of any relationship that had been anything more than purely physical.

Maybe it wasn't so strange then... 

Viktor had been so lonely, before he'd met Yuuri. Hadn't he?

The doctor is bent in front of Viktor. He's checking Viktor's eyes, shining a pen light into the one not obscured by bandages. He asks Viktor to follow his finger as he holds it up, moving it, left, right, up, down. 

Viktor seems disoriented still, bloody tears continuing to slip free each time he blinks, though he's stopped sobbing. He tries to follow the doctor's instructions, but even Yuuri can see his focus failing, his eye floating and distracted. A shot of worry works it's way up from Yuuri's gut.

The doctor's own expression seems calm though. He doesn't look overly concerned, and Yuuri tries to hold to that.

“Alright...” the doctor switches the pen light off, placing it in his breast pocket. “I'm going to ask you a series of questions Viktor. I want you to answer as best you can. It's not a test, so don't worry. Just tell me what you think.”

Viktor blinks.

“... Okay.” He says, and Yuuri's heart feels like it's shattering.

“What's your full name?” The doctor questions.

There's a brief pause, and for a horrible instant, Yuuri thinks Viktor might not remember.

“... Viktor Andreievitch Nikforov.”

The doctor smiles, and Yuuri can feel his shoulders slump in relief. He thinks he sees from the corner of his vision both Yakov and Yurio do the same.

“Good. And how old are you Viktor?”

Viktor swallows. It looks painful.

“... Twenty nine.” He answers. “I... I'm sorry, can I... Can I have some water, please?”

“Oh, of course.” The doctor replies, looking to one of the nurses.

The woman nods, heading off out of the room. She's back a moment later, a sippy cup with a straw held in her hand.

She holds it up to Viktor, guiding the straw to his mouth.

His lips are dried and cracking, and he pulls at the straw greedily as he drinks.

“... Th-thank you.” He says after he's had enough, and Yuuri doesn't know how he's doing this. He doesn't know how Viktor can still hold to his incredible politeness, even now. 

The nurse smiles at him, her expression pained.

“If you need anymore, just say.” She tells him, before stepping back.

“Are you okay to continue?” The doctor asks, and Viktor nods weakly.

“Alright. What city are you in?”

“... St. Petersburg, R-Russia.” 

“What's the date of your birthday?”

“T-twenty-fifth, December.” 

“Good. Good. Okay. I'm going to ask you some more difficult questions now. Alright?”

Again Viktor nods. Yuuri can see the pain in his face. Can see him struggling. He wants to say something, but he forces himself not to interrupt. The sooner they can get this over with, he tells himself, the sooner they can give Viktor more pain killers.

“Alright. What do you do for a profession, Viktor?”

Viktor swallows again.

“I... I'm a c-competitive figure skater.”

“Good. And where is it that you last competed?”

There's a moment of hesitation from Viktor, and Yuuri feels his gut clench.

“... Russian... Russian Nationals,” he answers. “I think?”

Yuuri can feel his shoulders slump in relief. He thinks he sees from the corner of his vision Yakov and Yurio do the same.

The doctor nods.

“And where did you place in that competition?”

“... First.” Viktor answers after a beat. He's having a little more difficulty remembering this, Yuuri thinks. He's remembering, but it's coming back to him more slowly.

“That's right.” The doctor smiles. “And you did more than just place first Viktor. Do you remember what you did at that competition?”

Another tear slides down Viktor's temple.

“... I... I broke the world record.” He says after a moment.

“That's right! It was an amazing performance Viktor. All of us here at the hospital were watching, cheering you on.”

Viktor doesn't say anything. He doesn't smile, like he usually would. He just stares. He still looks so lost.

“Do you remember what your score was Viktor?” The doctor asks.

Viktor's brow lines, like he's trying to remember, and after a short span, he shakes his head.

“... I can't.” He admits.

“That's okay.” The doctor reassures him. “You scored 340.82. Almost three points above your previous record.”

“... Okay.” Viktor says, and Yurri finally looks away from him. His tone is flat. Almost uncomprehending. There's none of the excitement that Viktor had had when he'd broken the record. None of the joy. 

“You're fiance also competed, in a different competition.” The doctor tries. “Do you remember where he placed?”

Viktor looks up at that, and Yuuri looks back at him.

“... First.” Viktor answers, and there's a faint smile which pulls up at the corners of his mouth when he says it. A plain pride in his tone, even now. 

Yuuri nearly bursts into tears. 

The doctor smiles again, nodding.

“That's right. You must have felt proud of him.”

And Viktor nods.

“... Yes.” He says. “My Yuuri...”

Yuuri does start to cry then, bringing his hand to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to keep quiet.

“Alright, Viktor... I want to ask you... and you don't have to answer right away if you don't want... Do you remember what happened before you were brought here?”

There's a pause, and Viktor's gaze shifts away, fixing on the far wall. For an instant, Yuuri sees his face etch deep with horrible, naked pain. And then he nods, swallowing thickly.

“C-can I have some more water, please?” He asks, and the doctor nods, the nurse stepping forward again to let Viktor drink.

The atmosphere in the room is suddenly oppressive.

Suddenly, Yuuri doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't want to hear Viktor say this. 

But Viktor does. He says it with so much calm, and Yuuri doesn't understand how. He doesn't understand how Viktor can be this strong.

“... I was attacked.” He says, his voice somehow steady, but quiet. So quiet. 

The doctor nods. He isn't smiling anymore. Instead his face grim, matching the expressions of pain on the nurses faces. On Yakov's, and Yurio's, and, Yuuri knows, his own. 

“Alright. Not now Viktor, but later today, do you think you can give a statement to the police on that? They're searching for the men who did this to you.”

“... Yes.” Viktor says, and still his voice is soft. So soft, it's hard to hear now. 

“Alright.” The doctor says. “I think that's enough for now. I'm guessing you're in a lot of pain?”

“He is.” Yuuri blurts without really meaning to. But he knows his fiance. He knows how Viktor would always try to hide when he was hurting. He didn't trust that Vitya would be able to ask for help here.

Viktor looks up at him, his gaze fixing on Yuuri, and Yuuri looks back. He tries smiling, but it's hard. It's so hard when Viktor looks so ruined. 

“Okay. I'm going to up the dosage then. If you're okay with that? Right now it's at 5 CC's. I'm going to increase that to 10. It should take effect fairly immediately. I just want you to rest for now Viktor. We'll go over everything later, after you feel a little bit better. Alright?”

Viktor only nods.

“Do you want to be alone for now, or...?

Viktor shakes his head immediately.

“No, I...” and his eyes go to Yuuri, and Yakov and Yurio. “Please, I want...”

“We're not going anywhere Vitya.” Yurio finally speaks. “Okay? We're staying here with you.”

Fresh tears well in Viktor's eyes.

“... Okay.” He says. “Okay... please... thank you...”

“There's nothing to thank us for Vitya.” Yakov says, his voice wavering, fighting back his own tears.

“... Okay... Thank you.” Viktor says again anyway, and he lifts a hand to his face, and he begins to weep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, as always, again, thank you so, so much for all of your support! For reading, commenting and giving kudos! I appreciate it so much!
> 
> Just a warning for this chapter guys. There's mentions of past instances of homophobia, homophobic language and bullying, as well as unhealthy coping mechanisms on Viktor's part in regards to that treatment. 
> 
> If you have a chance, please leave a comment!

Yuri thinks he's going to be sick.

There's policemen in the room now, gathered round Viktor's bed.

They keep talking at him, barking question after question, and can't they see Vitya's in pain?! Can't they see he's barely holding on? His voice trembles as he struggles to tell them what they want to know, hardly a cracked whisper, rough sounding like he'd been yelling at the tops of his lungs for hours.

Yuri's eyes keep drifting down to the vicious red bruising which runs all across Vitya's throat. A deep impression of what plainly looks like the metal links of a chain, and Yuri thinks he's going to be sick.

He wants to tell the policemen to shut the fuck up! To leave Viktor the fuck alone already!

“Can you tell us any details about what these men looked like?” One of the officers asks.

Viktor's hands shake badly, Yuuri sitting at his side, holding tight to him. Fresh tears keep forming in Viktor's eyes, slipping down his face, bloody.

His voice is strained and weak, giving stilted, vague answers. He says it was dark, and he couldn't see them very well. There were four of them, he thinks. He isn't sure. He isn't sure about anything, it seems. The doctor had said there might be problems with Vitya's memory, because they'd bashed his skull in.

Fucking cowards, Yuri thinks viciously, the nails of his fingers biting into his palms as he curls his hands to fists.

They were big, Viktor tells them. Taller than him by a lot. He thinks over six feet each.

Viktor wasn't big.

He was tall. Taller than him and Yuuri, sure. But he wasn't big. Wasn't a mass of muscle. He'd always been incredibly thin.

Four men over six feet tall had attacked him. Yuri had seen bastards like that on the street. Big, burly fuckers that were well over 200 lbs. Four of them had gone after Viktor. Four of them. Fucking disgusting god damned cowards!

Viktor stops talking suddenly, and Yuri sees him suck in a breath, a sharp gasp slipping from his throat as he looks down at the blanket covering his broken body. Yuuri squeezes his hand gently, and Yuri nearly loses control of himself, the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to tell the cops their little interview was over. But then Viktor keeps talking, and somehow it's worse. It's worse because Yuri doesn't want to hear this. Oh God, he doesn't want to hear this.

“They were too strong for me. I couldn't... I thought, maybe, but... I was stupid... I was stupid.”

Viktor keeps repeating it, over and over.

Yuuri tells him to stop. He tells Viktor he isn't stupid, and Viktor starts to cry again and Yuri leaves.

He can't look at this anymore. He can't stand it.

He hated seeing Viktor like this.

He hated seeing Viktor cry. Hated seeing him look so scared and fragile and lost.

Hated seeing him blame himself for what those fucking bastards had done to him.

He shoves the door to the bathroom open, storming inside. The lights flicker on, and he begins to pace back and forth, feeling his anger choke him.

“He doesn't deserve this.” Yuri mutters. “Viktor doesn't fucking deserve this! Why do you keep letting these things happen to him God!?”

There's no response. There's no response because God doesn't fucking exist. 

He wouldn't let these things happen if he did. He wouldn't let Viktor keep getting hurt like this...

Only nothing like this had ever happened to Viktor before. Nothing this bad...

Oh, God...

Viktor had been beat up for being gay before. Yuri knew that. Everyone at the rink knew it.

He'd heard enough stories. Overheard enough conversations from the other skaters and coaches. Seen the looks of sympathy and pity they would send Viktor's way when he would show up to the rink with a black eye, or a busted lip, his own face etched with so much horrible despair and resignation, replacing his brilliant, generous smile and life-filled eyes. 

He had seen Viktor cry exactly once. He wasn't meant to see, Yuri knows. Nobody was.

It was in a hotel the team had been staying in, one time five years ago. He and Viktor's rooms had been placed next to each other, and, Yuri remembers, he'd been walking down the hallway, heading towards the hotel lobby. He can't remember what for. He remembers the sound which had drawn his attention, though, clear as day, making him freeze.

Up ahead of him a few feet, there had been an alcove in the hallway wall, and Yuri remembers he'd heard, unmistakably, a harsh sobbing noise. He'd stood there for a long moment, his heart kicking hard in his chest.

He'd thought in that instant he should just pretend he'd heard nothing and keep moving. Had even decided on that course, forcing himself to step forward after a few seconds more of standing paralyzed. But he hadn't been able to keep himself from glancing aside as he'd walked past the alcove, and he'd frozen again as he'd seen Viktor standing there, his arms pressed to the wall, hiding his face against them. His thin frame had been trembling, Yuri remembers, because he'd been crying, unaware he was being watched.

_Yuri stands for a moment, frozen, uncertain he's really seeing what he is._

_It was Viktor, his brain supplied him. It was Viktor Nikiforov, standing there, crying._

_Yuri can only stare at him for what seems eternity. _

_Viktor was a god. Or... that was how Yuri had used to think of him, anyway, before he'd started to really get to know him._

_Viktor was... pretty cool, actually. He was really nice. Yuri had been surprised at that, when they'd first met, and he isn't sure why. Maybe because Viktor was the greatest figure skater of all time, and Yuri had just imagined, because of that, he must have to be this untouchable, perfect person. _

_And in some ways, Viktor did still seem that way to him. _

_He was incredibly handsome, and Yuri had never seen him look anything less than absurdly stylish and put together. He dressed better than anyone Yuri had ever seen, in the most expensive, perfectly fitting clothes he had ever seen. He spoke with incredible articulation, spoke something like three or four languages fluently, Yuri knew, and held himself as gracefully off the ice as on. And he was almost stupidly charming. People seemed to fall all over themselves wherever he went, just to get a little closer to him._

_But the thing Yuri had noticed about Viktor was that he always said hello to everybody, and he would spend however long it took to sign every single autograph requested of him. Sometimes he would be standing there on his feet for two, even three hours after a whole day of practice. Yuri knew for a fact Viktor was exhausted, yet he never said a single word of complaint, or told anyone he didn't have time. He looked everyone in the eye, and smiled, and even talked to them a bit, and signed whatever they wanted. _

_The first time he'd witnessed it, Yuri had half expected Viktor to talk trash about the whole process afterward. To complain about how greedy or thoughtless or annoying his fans were._

_But he never did._

_He never said a single bad word about anybody. Not then, and not a single time since._

_More than that, Viktor talked to him. He hung out with him. Would sit with him during breaks in practice and eat lunch with him. Would ask him about his day and about skating and give him advice. _

_Whenever Yuri had a question about it, or about anything really, Viktor would spend a long time answering him, going into way more detail than Yuri even wanted. He would even play video games with him, which he was absolutely horrible at. Yuri had thought, because Viktor was such an incredible competitor, that he would have been pissed the first time Yuri had kicked his ass at Mortal Kombat. But Viktor had just beamed at him with that huge smile he had and told him how much fun it was, and had asked if they could play again._

_Yuri had almost felt bad for him then, he remembers. Viktor had seemed so earnest, even eager to play, and Yuri had thought to himself, surely Viktor Nikiforov had something better to do than to spend time playing video games with some little kid._

_But if he had, he said nothing about it, and they'd ended up playing for a couple hours that day, Viktor losing every single match in spectacular fashion and not seeming to mind at all. Yuri had started to feel so bad about it, that, more than a few times, he's purposefully tried losing. Even then, Viktor had lost, and still, hadn't seemed to mind in the least._

_Later on, Yuri had even tried teaching Viktor how to play better, but he'd been hopeless at it, his fingers painfully clumsy and slow on the controller._

_It was weird, Yuri had thought at the time. Viktor wasn't that old. Video games had been around when he'd been a kid too. Hadn't he ever played any growing up?_

_From how bad he was at them, Yuri didn't think so._

_The truth was... Viktor was unbeatable on the ice. That's what it seemed like. He was perfect on the ice._

_Off it... he was... kind of a dork? He was embarrassing in some ways, Yuri had begun to learn. He liked stupid things, like classical music, and old, boring paintings, and old books and poetry. God. He got overly excited about ridiculous things and would do this cringe worthy jumping up and down while clapping his hands. _

_Yuri had thought, the first time he'd seen that, how gay Viktor looked._

_He'd felt bad afterward._

_He'd felt even worse when, at school, some of his former friends had learned he knew Viktor, and they'd laughed and said things Yuri never wanted to hear again._

_“Man, I heard Nikiforov's a total fuckin' queer.”_

_“... What's that mean?” He'd asked._

_“It means he likes to suck cock.” The boy had sneered._

_“That's disgusting man. People like that should be fuckin' shot.” Another had spit._

_“Yeah, or strung up from a tree. You better watch yourself around that fag Yuri. Most of them queers are into little boys, I hear. If he ever came up to me and tried anything, I'd beat the fucker to death.”_

_Yuri had felt a shot of rage so intense then, he swears he'd gone blind for a moment._

_Only he hadn't said anything. He hadn't told them to shut up, even though he'd wanted to. Hadn't told them they didn't know what the fuck they were talking about, even though he knew they didn't. Because he'd been scared. Because he'd felt, suddenly, almost ashamed. Because he'd remembered thinking how Viktor looked gay when he got really excited, and how he'd felt embarrassed by it. By how girly Viktor could sometimes be._

_And then the shame had gotten worse, because he'd avoided Viktor after that. For a few weeks. Because he hated that he hadn't stood up for him, and didn't want to have to face him then, knowing he hadn't. _

_Viktor had come up to Yuri plenty of times during those weeks, asking if he wanted to hang out. Asking if they could play Mortal Kombat, or eat lunch together, or if Yuri had any questions about his skating he wanted answered._

_Yuri had, each time, rambled out some hasty excuse for why they couldn't do any of those things, before dashing quickly away._

_Only once or twice had he allowed himself to look at Viktor when he'd turned him down. He'd thought, maybe, he'd seen something like hurt in Viktor's eyes those few times._

_But he doesn't know. Because Viktor would then smile his blinding smile, and tell him “That's okay!”. Would say “I'll see you later Yuri!”. And he was so fucking nice, and Yuri hated himself more and more, until finally he couldn't take it, and he'd stopped talking to those kids at school, and stopped telling Viktor he couldn't hang out._

_And Viktor had acted like there'd never been any tension at all, and everything was okay._

_Maybe that's why he's so shocked now, seeing Viktor like this. Seeing him cry. _

_Viktor always made it seem like everything was fine. He was always fine._

_He doesn't know what to do, he realizes. For an instant, he thinks he should just leave. It's uncomfortable, and awkward. He doesn't really want to know, he thinks, why Viktor's hiding in an alcove, crying against a wall._

_“... What's wrong?” His stupid mouth blurts anyway._

_He watches as Viktor flinches, straightening almost immediately, his long, thin frame going stiff._

_He doesn't turn right away, standing still with his face turned away, and Yuri sees him reach up, wiping at his eyes._

_“... Yuri.” He starts after a moment, his voice just barely wavering._

_And then he turns, and he's smiling his dazzling smile. Only Yuri can see his eyes are red, and it strikes him how forced the smile is. How it doesn't at all reach Viktor's eyes._

_“What are you doing here?” He asks, bright and cheerful._

_Yuri isn't fooled by it._

_“Why are you crying?” He asks bluntly._

_For a moment, Viktor looks actually startled, his eyes widening, mouth falling open like he's trying to think of something to say._

_Finally his eyes fix down, and he laughs, and it's an awful sound, Yuri thinks. Not like Viktor's usual laugh. This one is filled with pain._

_“You know Yuri...” and he looks up at Yuri now, and his eyes are wet, and he's still smiling. “Boy trouble.” _

_Yuri feels himself stiffen._

_… He knows Viktor is gay. And he knows what that means. Everyone on the team knows. _

_Only no one's ever really just... said it. No one's ever really acknowledged it out loud. It was just one of those things that was understood about Viktor. One of those things no one really wanted to address._

_Yuri never expected Viktor to just... come out and say it like that._

_Viktor must see the discomfort on Yuri's face, because he immediately stops smiling._

_“I'm sorry.” He looks away, and Yuri notices the way Viktor's fingers begin to twist in the material of his jacket, like he's actually nervous. “I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.”_

_“No...” Yuri says quickly, feeling suddenly terrible. “It's... okay. I mean... I don't care.”_

_Viktor looks back to him, and he smiles weakly._

_“... Worst kept secret, huh?” _

_Yuri frowns, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging._

_“Who fucking cares anyway?” He asks, and he realizes he means it. So fucking what if Viktor liked guys? He doesn't understand why everyone seemed so freaked out by it. It didn't change who he was. It didn't change anything. “So... what happened?”_

_Yuri knows what happened, he thinks._

_He'd seen it enough times._

_Yakov being woken in the middle of the night by his phone ringing. Those times when he had had to share a room with Yuri while overseas for a competition, and Yuri could hear Viktor's voice from the other line. _

_It was almost a regular thing, and Yakov would mutter curses under his breath while he hastily dressed, thinking Yuri was asleep._

_He would leave the hotel room, and come back sometimes half an hour later, sometimes more like two hours later._

_Viktor would be slumped against him, Yakov's arm around his waist, holding him up. Yuri knew enough to know Viktor was drunk off his ass, those times._

_If he didn't, Viktor's slurring, too loud voice would have told him anyway. And Yakov's hissed demands that he “shut up”. _

_Viktor would whine, sounding pitiful._

_“He was coming back for me Yakov! He said he was!”_

_“Enough Vitya. How many times are you going to do this to yourself?”_

_“... But he said...” Viktor had trailed off, his voice suddenly weak. “... They always go away...”_

_Yakov had sighed loudly, Yuri remembers. He'd sounded exhausted._

_“... Come on Vitya. Lets get you to bed.”_

_Another understood, unspoken thing about Viktor. He went to all night bars, sometimes when they were on the road for competitions, sometimes at home in St. Petersburg. He would go there to pick up other men. Or... that's what Yuri had heard anyway. Like he'd heard sometimes those men would take Viktor back to wherever they lived. _

_Most times, he'd also heard, Viktor would end up alone and completely shit faced._

_Viktor was famous. People knew who he was. They knew what he was. And people could be mean. _

_There were plenty of them who would think it was the most hilarious thing in the world, to pretend to like the famous, gay figure skater, to make him think they were interested, and just when he thought he'd found someone, to abandon him, too drunk to get home on his own, in some dive bar in some shitty part of town. _

_So, yeah, Yuri thinks he knows._

_It makes him feel shitty, looking up at Viktor, and thinking he looked, in that moment, almost pathetic. _

_Viktor, who was like a god to him on the ice. Viktor, who seemed so outwardly perfect the rest of the time. _

_Yuri doesn't get why he let other men treat him this way. Couldn't he have any guy he wanted? He was Viktor fucking Nikiforov. Didn't he know he could do better than whatever shit bags he was wasting his time on?_

_Viktor's eyes fill with tears, and he reaches up, wiping them away before they can fall, and he's still smiling that awful, fake smile when he says..._

_“It's nothing Yuri. I'm alright.”_

_“... You don't look alright.” Yuri mutters, frustrated._

_“I'm alright.” Viktor repeats, and he straightens, and suddenly he doesn't look pathetic anymore. Suddenly, he looks like what's he's always been to Yuri. A winner. “You want to get something to eat?” He asks. “There's this neat looking cafeteria downstairs. You can order anything you want. I promise I won't tell Yakov. My treat?”_

_Viktor smiles at him, and this one is different. This one is bright and genuine and reaches Viktor's eyes, and Yuri thinks no one has a smile like Viktor. _

_“Yeah... okay.” _

_Halfway through the meal, Viktor excitedly telling him hilarious stories about how Yakov used to have to chase him around his house and physically drag him into his room to get him to go to bed, and Yuri nearly forgets he'd ever seen Viktor crying at all._

That was what Viktor did, Yuri thinks.

He made you forget to stop worrying about him.

Stupid... stupid old man! Yuri doesn't understand it. He doesn't understand why Vitya was so determined to seem alright when he fucking wasn't.

Yuri doesn't think he ever had been. He'd had a fucking shit life. His own fucking parents had kicked him out of his own home when he'd been thirteen years old, three years younger than Yuri was now, for being gay. He'd gotten beaten up and spit on and made fun of for the same fucking thing, over and over. 

But he was always so cheerful, so fucking upbeat and positive and never said bad shit about anybody and Yuri doesn't fucking understand why. 

He doesn't understand why Viktor had gone out alone after midnight. He should have fucking known better. 

He doesn't understand why fucking Katsudon had let him. The fucking pig should have known better too.

But that was it again, wasn't it? Vitya made you forget that you should be worried about him. He'd probably done the same to Katsuki. Stupid old man with his stupid confidence and certainty about everything. And look what it had fucking gotten him! 

He'll never be able to skate again, probably, Yuri thinks.

The thought comes like an anvil to his chest, and it's the worst thing, and he just starts sobbing. Ugly, broken, loud sobs, and he presses his hands to his mouth, horrified and grief stricken.

Viktor's skating this season had been the best of his career. He was landing every kind of quad like it was fucking nothing. Coming up with entries which were impossibly creative and difficult, and yet executing them with what looked like no effort at all. Combination jumps and spins like they were as easy as breathing. The height he was getting on his jumps was unreal. Seemingly impossible for someone his age. 

More than that, his form, his grace, it was all fucking perfect. His programs, all choreographed by himself, they were fucking flawless, and beautiful, and so fucking expressive. Yuri didn't usually succumb to sappy, romantic notions. But if he could find any word to describe how Viktor had looked out there on the ice this season, it would be poetry. Viktor looked like a living, breathing poem come to life.

More than a few times this year, watching Viktor skate his programs, Yuri had felt his throat close up with emotion. He would die before telling anyone. But he could admit to himself. 

Because Viktor was special. 

He'd always been special. He always would be. 

He was a fucking genius.

And he was in his fucking prime, somehow. 

At age 29. He was in his prime, and nobody was going to beat him. 

Not Katsuki. 

Not him. 

Maybe he told everyone he was coming for Viktor at this years Olympics, but he knew that was bullshit. They all did. Nobody was coming for Viktor this year. He was too good. He was too fucking good. He was going to win gold. Four fucking Olympic gold medals. Who did that? Viktor fucking Nikiforov, that's who. He was going to win his 7th World Title too, if he chose to compete at World's this season.

It was amazing. It was history in the making. A feat that would probably go forever unmatched. It was... It was...

And they'd taken that away from him. All of it. Those... those sons of fucking bastards, they'd...

It wasn't fair...

It wasn't fucking fair!

The sound of the bathroom door swinging open reaches his ears, but he can't stop crying and he doesn't care anyway. Whoever the hell it was, it doesn't matter.

“Fuck off!” He curses, keeping his back turned.

“Yuri...”

Fuck.

“... Are you alright?” Katsuki asks in that gentle, sincere tone he always has.

Yuri would laugh at him. Would tell him to go jump off a fucking cliff. Except he can't stop fucking sobbing.

Can only shake his head, no, no, no...

He feels Katsuki come closer. Can feel him standing beside him.

“Hey...” he says.

Yuri explodes.

“FUCK YOU KATSUKI! J-JUST FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF!”

Katsuki doesn't fuck off.

God damn him and his fucking nice bullshit. No wonder him and Viktor loved each other so much. They were both so disgustingly nice.

His arms wrap around Yuri, and the bastard is stronger than he looks, and he's pulling Yuri against his chest, and Yuri doesn't even struggle to break free. 

He reaches up, hands clinging and twisting pathetically in the material of Katsuki's shirt, and he cries into his chest, and fuck, he knows he looks and sounds pathetic, but he can't help it. He can't stop it.

“... H-he was supposed to...” he sobs, and there wasn't any point in trying to push it down now. Fucking fucked up emotions strangling his throat, making his chest hurt. He doesn't even know what all of them are. Just knows they make him feel like he's gonna puke if he doesn't let them out.

“I know...” Katsuki says quietly, his hand resting against the back of Yuri's head. He sounds like he's crying too.

“H-he was ss-supposed to be at the Olympics t-this year ss-so I could kk-kick his ass. He was...”

“I know.” Katsuki repeats, his voice cracking and breaking. “I know.”

“F-fucking coward p-probably knew I was gonna... kick his ass... a-and now he doesn't... doesn't have to... g-get embarrassed by me...”

“It's okay Yuri.”

He shakes his head.

“H-he's never gonna skate again, is he?!” He wails, and he can feel Katsuki go stiff around him.

“... I don't know.” He answers honestly, and it just makes it worse. God, it makes it worse.

“S-stupid... stupid old man...” Yuri mutters, because he doesn't know what else to say. He's starting to calm down now, the realization of the past few minutes burning his face with shame. 

Finally he shoves away from Katsuki, wiping at his eyes.

“W-why aren't you with him?” He asks, trying to divert attention from what had just happened.

“... He's sleeping now.” Katsuki tells him quietly. “I think... talking to the police really wore him out.”

“Fucking cops. They should've left him alone.”

“... Yeah. They should have.”

“He couldn't tell 'em anything anyway. Why can't they just fucking leave him alone?”

“... I guess because they want to catch whoever did this.” Katsuki offers lamely, sounding like he doesn't really believe it.

Yuri laughs, the sound bitter and hateful.

“Yeah, right. Like they tried to find out all the other times...”

He freezes...

Shit, he wasn't supposed to say that. Viktor had asked him not to.

He expects Katsuki to say something. To ask him what. But there's nothing, and when Yuri turns to look at him finally, he sees him standing there, his face unusually blank and unreadable.

“... So it's happened before.” He finally breathes, and it sounds more like a statement than a question. Like he somehow already knew.

“No.” Yuri answers. “I mean... not like this. Nothing this bad, but...”

“But...” Katsuki looks at him pleadingly.

“... This is Russia.” Yuri says. “And Viktor's openly gay. It hasn't happened in years though. Probably since he was 24 or 25. No one's touched him in years.”

Suddenly Katsuki's eyes are filled with tears, and he turns away, bringing a fist to his mouth, biting down on it.

“Oh God...” he whimpers. “I knew something was going on. I knew he wasn't telling me something...”

Yuri stands there feeling awkward, not knowing what to do.

He'd never agreed with Viktor that he should keep his past from Katsuki. Maybe this was why. Maybe if Katsuki had known, he wouldn't have let Viktor leave that night...

“... H-how often?” Katsuki finally asks. “How often has it happened before?”

Yuri looks down, his teeth gritting together. There was no point in lying about it. It was already out in the open now.

“... Once in a while, I mean... When he was younger...” Yuri starts, unsure. “I never saw it happen, but... he used to come to the rink sometimes all... all busted up, and everyone knew what was going on. That he was getting slapped around by some of the local tough guys. It wasn't a secret what Vitya was, and... there's a lot of people in Russia who don't like it.”

He glances up at Katsuki, seeing his face pale. He looks like he's going to be sick.

“... Yakov used to try and get him to tell him who was doing it, but...” he shakes his head. “Viktor would never say. He'd just say it was fine. Would act like he was fine...”

Tears slip down Katsuki's face, his expression agonized.

“Why... why didn't he tell me?” He pleads. Yuri doesn't know if he's asking him directly or just wondering the question aloud.

“... I guess... he was probably ashamed or something stupid like that.” He answers anyway. “You know how he always acts like he's totally fine, even when he's fucking not.”

The look on Katsuki's face tells him he knows exactly what Yuri's talking about.

“... This is my fault.” He hears Katsuki whisper to himself, and suddenly all of Yuri's earlier feelings of anger and frustration, towards Viktor and Katsuki both, it drains away to nothing, replaced by bitter regret.

“It's not.” He snaps. “It's... it's not your fault. Or Vitya's. It's those fucking bastards that did this to him. They're the ones that did this for no fucking reason! Okay? Because he loves you, and they thought that was a good enough reason to beat a good person half to fucking death! To take his whole life away from him!”

And fuck, he's crying again, the reality of it all roaring back to the front of his mind.

He doesn't know when Katsuki pulls him into another hug. Only becomes aware after the fact that he's being held, and he doesn't care anymore. His arms come up, wrapping around the other skater, burying his face against Katsuki's shoulder. 

He lets himself cry. Let's Katsuki cry with him.

It doesn't fucking matter.

It's all so fucked anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my many thanks to all my readers and supporters! You guys are amazing, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter for homophobic slurs, bullying, self-esteem issues and panic attacks. We're going to be delving into Viktor's past some from here on out, learning more about his experiences growing up. They aren't often very pretty, as again, this story is dealing with homophobia in Russia, and the impact of that on Viktor. Again, just be mindful of the tags!
> 
> If you have a chance, please leave a review, and thanks again guys!

When Viktor had been a boy, in school, he remembers being bullied mercilessly by the other children. In a general way, he'd often been laughed at and called names for his long hair and what they called "girly behavior", always excluded from joining in on their games. Left to stand on the sidelines and watch. Often he was the last picked during games of sport. The irony of that was hardly lost on him, even then.

More specifically, he remembers two boys. Pyotr and Dmitry. They'd been his same age. Had remained in the same schools as him through graduation. He remembers their names. Their faces. They, most specifically, had made those days for him nightmarish. 

Their harassment of him grew so bad, he remembers, that he had begun to dread going to school at all. Remembers begging his mother and father many times to take him out of public school. To let him have home tutoring. Many of the other skaters in his division were schooled at home, he would argue. 

His father would sneer at him and ask him if he thought he was so special that he could demand such a frivolous expense from them. 

“We're already spending more money than you deserve on your ridiculous skating.” He would say.

Eventually, Viktor stopped asking.

Pyotr and Dmitry didn't stop their bullying though.

They would corner Viktor in the restrooms, mainly.

They would call him Viktoria Nicuntirov, and say it like it was the most clever insult in the world.

Maybe it was, because Viktor still remembers it too, like he remembers their names and faces.

It was worse, when he'd gotten older, and his name had become known in the figure skating world. And by the time they'd reached sixteen, seventeen years of age, Pyotr and Dmitry had grown to big, strong young men, and it gave them endless pleasure, to exert their physical dominance over a professional athlete like him.

_“What's the matter, Nicuntirof? I thought you fags liked it from behind?”_

_Dmitry's hands squeeze threateningly tight over Viktor's wrists where he has them trapped behind his back, his grip crushingly painful. He presses his body forward, crowding Viktor up against the bathroom wall, until his face is pressed against the cold tile, and Viktor squeezes his eyes shut, his breath constricting in his lungs._

_It's an awful feeling, being physically overpowered. He'd tried pulling free of Dmitry's hold. It had been like his arms were trapped by manacles of iron, and Viktor's mouth had gone dry with fear as he'd realized the fruitlessness of it. _

_The same as how he'd tried breaking for the bathroom door, when Dmitry and Pyotr had motioned for him. All he'd gotten for his effort was a hard slap in the face, and too quickly for him to react, Dmitry had grabbed hold of him and shoved him face first against the wall, yanking his arms behind him as easily as he would any child._

_Viktor's face burns, his stomach roiling with familiar humiliation._

_“... Please.” He begs, and he just wants them to let him go. To leave him alone. _

_“You want it that bad, Nicuntirof?” Dmitry laughs, his breath hot against Viktor's ear._

_Viktor feels him press closer, his hips pushing Viktor more flush to the wall. And suddenly he's lost what little balance he has, a violent jolt going through him as his legs are kicked wide apart at the ankles, and he feels a hard knee come up between his legs, pressing into his groin._

_“I'm surprised you even got a dick, Nicuntirov, seeing how you're just so pretty. Pretty as a girl, huh? You sure as shit more slender than any girl at this school, ain't ya? With your pretty girl face and your fuckin' long hair. Just like a girl.” _

_Dmitry's fingers tangle in Viktor's hair, tugging painfully against his scalp, and Viktor tries to swallow down the sharp gasp from the pain. He doesn't quite manage._

_“... Please let me go.” Viktor begs again, and he can feel his eyes burning. He won't cry though. He won't do that. _

_“Maybe it ain't a dick. I bet he's got a sock stuffed down there or somethin'.” Pyotr says from behind._

_“Huh. That right Nicuntirov? Maybe you really do got a cunt, 'stead of cock. Maybe we should check and see?”_

_Dmitri's hand lets go his hair, and snakes down, quick as lightening, between Viktor's legs, groping at his crotch._

_Panic swells in Viktor's chest, and he tries again desperately to break free._

_It feels like a thousand pound weight is pressing him against the wall though, and he can't move at all, his breath coming sharp and erratic as he strains and grunts and gets absolutely nowhere. _

_“Don't...” he pleads. “Please...”_

_And the burning in his eyes turns to tears then, and he squeezes his lids shut._

_“Please...”_

_Dmitry either doesn't hear him, or doesn't care._

_His hand continues to grope and cup at him a few moments more, before abruptly he pulls Viktor from the wall, spinning him around and slamming him back against it._

_Viktor's head snaps back against the tiles, hard, a wave of dizziness crashing down on him, even as he feels the rough, suffocating press of Dmitry's hand over his mouth, pressing his face aside, crushing it against the wall._

_“Yeah, lets see.” He hears one of them say. He doesn't know which one._

_It's all the warning he gets before he feels thick, fumbling fingers at the clasp of his pants._

_He barely has time to register what it means before, all at once, he feels the material yanked roughly down._

_He only realizes his underway has been stripped down too when he feels the shock of cool air between his legs._

_The shame chokes him, and he can't keep the tears from slipping free, down his face. _

_Dmitry has let him go, and he scrambles, bending down with shaking hands to pull his underway and pants back up._

_But Dmitry and Pyotr have already seen anyway, and they're laughing. Laughing and laughing._

_“Jesus, I thought it was a dye job.” Pyotr howls. “I can't believe your hair's actually that color! What a fuckin' freak!”_

_Viktor says nothing, his hands shaking as he struggles to redo the clasp on his pants. He doesn't look at them. He can't. _

_And then he just stands there, his eyes locked on the floor, and he doesn't know what to do. They're still blocking the exit, and he can't get past them. Not unless they let him._

_They laugh and laugh for what seems forever, until finally their laughter dies away._

_“Fuckin' queer.” One of them mutters, and the sound of rusting hinges fills Viktor's ears. And then nothing._

_He stands there for a long time. He doesn't know how long. And he can't look up. He can't bear to look up and see them, looking back at him. There's a feeling in the pit of his stomach like falling, his face still hot with shame._

_It's only when he hears the door swing open again, another student appearing, that he seems to break out of his frozen daze._

_Dmitry and Pyotr are gone._

_The other boy looks startled as Viktor snaps to. He doesn't give him a chance to say a word, hurrying out of the bathroom._

_He doesn't want to stay here, he thinks._

_And so he leaves the school, arms wrapped tight around himself to shield against the coming cold._

_He wanders the streets of St. Petersburg, not knowing where to go. Not having any place, really._

_He doesn't want Yakov to know. Doesn't want Lilia to know either. That this was still happening. That he was still such a helpless fool. Sixteen years old and he was still so helpless._

_Tears burn in his eyes, and he lifts a hand, wiping viciously at his face._

_He can't go home. Can't go to the rink. Not now._

_And so he wanders until the sun sinks down beneath the horizon, blanketing everything in dark. Wanders until his feet ache and blister, and his fingers, and the tips of his ears are numb from the cold, and he shakes and shakes and he can't stop shaking. Wanders until, hours later, Yakov finds him, huddled on a bench in a park, a few blocks from the rink._

_He hates the look of pity in Yakov's eyes. Hates the way Yakov looks at him and says “Oh, Vitya...” and he sounds so sad. So, so sad._

_He doesn't try to pull away when Yakov puts an arm around his shoulders and helps him stand from the bench. Let's himself curl against the man, and buries his face against his chest. _

_He cries, and he feels grateful when Yakov says nothing at all._

Viktor had thought... hoped... foolishly... foolishly... when he'd finally left school... when he'd become an adult... a man... 

Adults weren't supposed to get bullied. Wasn't that right? They weren't.

Maybe because he was weak, and stupid, though. 

Long after Dmitry and Pyotr and all the other student's had gone absent from his life, long after that... he still found himself shoved to the ground. Pushed and held down and hit and kicked and... 

He wasn't strong enough... to stop it... he wasn't...

He used to fantasize, sometimes... would imagine himself being confronted, a group of faceless bullies... He imagined himself standing up to them... imagined having some witty, sharp comeback to their childish name calling... laughing off their words and insults and feeling nothing at them... no hurt... no shame... Instead it would be them who's faces grew red with embarrassment...

Them who would feel small...

He imagined being able to fight back. 

Imagined himself like some sort of martial arts expert. He would dodge their attacks with effortless grace. He would block and parry their blows. One of them would grab hold of him, and he would break free like it was nothing, because he would be so strong and powerful, and they couldn't hold him down. They couldn't hold him still. Because he was so strong...

A harsh laugh huffs from Viktor's chest, choking off with the lance of sharp pain which follows.

Stupid... He was stupid...

Hot moisture runs down his temple, and he reaches up, wiping away at it.

His fingers come away wet and red.

He's seen his face. 

He'd asked Yuuri to let him see himself. Yuuri hadn't wanted him to.

His Yuuri... 

He was so kind. God, he was...

A sob threatens in Viktor's throat, and he bites down on his knuckles to keep it down.

Yuuri slept beside him, his head resting on the bed. 

Viktor can't wake him.

He wonders how he'll look, once the bandages are removed. 

His face looks hideous now, grotesquely swollen and bruised. His one, visible eye is blood red through where the white of it should be. 

Eventually, he guesses, all that will fade.

But his left orbital bone had been crushed, the doctor had said. They'd had to do reconstructive surgery. He might be blind in his left eye. They don't know yet. 

He hopes he isn't too ugly. He doesn't want to embarrass Yuuri. 

He wonders what else there is, if he ends up ugly. He wonders what else there is that would keep Yuuri with him.

Oh God, he... he doesn't want... 

And he knows... 

His body is broken. The doctor's have explained everything, and... 

Viktor has never been one to delude himself.

He's old. Almost 30. The damage from the beating is catastrophic. 

He won't be able to heal, probably. Not properly, anyway. Maybe if he was 18 years old again.

He'll be lucky if he ends up being able to walk without a limp.

He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to skate again.

He thinks, competitively, assuredly not. 

He's finished.

He thinks about Yuuri, and how he's coached him these last two years. How he's always been out there on the ice with him, to show him what he wants, what he means...

He doesn't know how... how he's going to do that now. 

He doesn't know.

Yuuri's career is just beginning to take off. He's on the precipice of realizing his true potential. And now...

Yuuri had a competition coming up in less than two weeks. The Rostelecom Cup. They had both been meant to compete at it...

Oh, God... 

Yuuri couldn't afford to miss it. If he skipped out on the event, he wouldn't qualify for the Final. He wouldn't...

The sob lodges in Viktor's throat again, and he isn't able to bite down hard enough to keep it quiet now, a low whine spilling past his teeth.

He can't... he can't let Yuuri suffer because of his own stupidity. Because he wasn't smart enough to... to run away when every instinct in his brain was telling him to. Because he wasn't smart enough to listen to Yuuri in the first place.

… Yakov... he needed to ask Yakov if he would be Yuuri's coach now. 

Yakov could take Yuuri through the rest of the seasons competitions, better than he could. 

God, he can't... 

He should be there for Yuuri. He should be there, supporting his fiance out on the ice, instead of... instead of stuck here in this hospital. Instead of... 

Oh, Yuuri had already missed so many days of practice because of him. Because he was being forced to stay here in this horrible place. Because...

A flash goes off in Viktor's eyes, and suddenly he's standing out on the street.

It's dark, and cold, and there's a man standing in front of him. He's grinning at Viktor. Leering. His eyes shine with hate.

No, Viktor thinks. And he tries to speak. But his mouth is dry as dust, words caught and trapped in his closing throat, and no, no, no, not again, not again...

The certainty that he's going to die grips him and swallows his heart, and he can do nothing, everything slowed to some obscene clarity as he watches the man lift the baseball bat in his hands. It's dirty. Smeared dark with blood, and it's his blood, Viktor knows. It's his own blood.

Something cold and hard wraps round his throat, the cutting bite of metal links, vicious in the freezing dark, and he begins to choke.

The bat swings up, and Viktor's vision goes black as it impacts against his face.

“NO!”

He screams, his heart exploding in his chest and he can't... he can't... oh God... Oh God...

Yuuri snaps awake, eyes wide and horrified.

“Viktor!?” 

There's a pounding in his head, deafeningly loud, rushing, cracking in his ears. Somewhere far outside, something like gasping, desperate breaths punctuate through. Pitched high and frantic. He doesn't know what it is. 

… He can't breathe. Oh, Jesus, he can't...

“Viktor, oh God... baby!” Yuuri is there. His hands are there. They're reaching out. Soft, warm palms press against his face, and Viktor feels his eyes shoot wide, and he can't... he can't...

“Viktor, baby...” Yuuri says again, and his voice is suddenly steady... determined... like when he was about to go out on the ice, and he would tell him “Don't ever take your eyes off me.”

Viktor looks at him, and it's like the world is spinning. Everything falls in and out of focus, moving, lurching unnaturally. The frenzied, high pitched gasping grows louder.

“Viktor...”

“I can't breathe!” Viktor cries, and oh... oh, the gasping breaths are coming from him, aren't they? “I can't breathe!” he chokes, and he's never been more frightened. He feels like he's going to die. His skin burns, heart beating so hard it hurts... it hurts... lungs won't work. They ache and burn and won't fill with air. He doesn't know what's happening. Oh God, oh Jesus, was he dying? Was... was he going to die? 

“Okay, baby, Viktor, yes you can. Baby, you're having a panic attack.” Yuuri says, and he sounds so certain. He looks Viktor right in the eye and he says it and he sounds certain. “You need to take a big breath. Can you do that for me?”

Viktor shakes his head, and his vision blurs with tears. He can't. He can't take a big breath. Everything hurts. It burns like fire and he's dying. Oh, he knows he's dying. 

“Okay, Viktor, yes you can. Just... just keep looking at me. Follow me. Alright? I'm going to breathe, and I want you to breathe with me and hold it.”

“I'm going to die!” Viktor gasps.

Yuuri shakes his head.

“No you're not. Viktor, I know it feels like you are. Okay? I've been through what's happening to you right now more times than I can count. You know how I have panic attacks? That's what you're having right now. It feels horrible, I know. But you're not dying. You're just really scared. Now, I'm going to count to three and take a really big breath. And I want you to take a big breath with me. Okay?”

“I-I can't... I can't...” Viktor cries.

“Yes you can. Okay... here we go. One... two... three...”

Yuuri inhales deeply. Viktor tries to follow him. A horrible, gasping wheeze fills his ears, and he watches as Yuuri holds the breath, then lets it go, and Viktor tries to follow that too. He's failing, he thinks miserably. He's scared. 

“Good. That was good baby. Okay, again on three. One... two... three...”

Again Yuuri takes a deep breath. Again, Viktor tries to follow.

“You're doing so good baby. You're doing great. Again...”

Over and over, Yuuri counts to three and breathes in, holds it... lets it go slowly. His hands don't leave Viktor's face. His eyes never shift away. 

Viktor still feels like he isn't getting enough air. He keeps following Yuuri though, and finally, finally, the frantic beating of his heart begins to slow, the rushing, screaming in his ears growing softer, and softer, and he can hear Yuuri talking to him more clearly. Can hear his own breaths coming slower and more even, the gasping wheeze gradually slipping away.

“Okay... okay baby? You're doing so good.” Yuuri smiles at him, and his eyes are wet. Viktor feels his thumb drag across his cheek, wiping away his own tears.

“... I'm sorry.” Viktor sobs, the terror ebbing away, only to be replaced by wretched guilt. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“No,” Yuuri leans forward, pressing his forehead to Viktor's. “No. Don't say that. Vitya, don't. You didn't do anything.”

“... I did...” he sobs again, and he can't stop himself. He can't. Broken, desperate gasps slipping again past his teeth, his body betraying him, trembling viciously. It hurts, his bones rattling and aching with the convulsions, and it only makes him cry harder. 

“No, Vitya. Oh, my darling, please don't... d-don't do this to yourself. Remember how many times you've talked me down off the ledge? You've always been there for me.”

Viktor shakes his head.

“No...”

“Yes, Vitya...”

“No, Yuuri... you... you need... practice... already you... do you”

The English slips from his mind in his frenzied need to explain to Yuuri. To make himself understood. He can't think of the right words, suddenly. 

“Viktor, calm down.” Yuuri tells him. “Just breathe. Breathe, okay?”

“... I try.” Viktor weeps pathetically. “I try, Yuuri... I try... you need practice... to... to go to the rink... practice with Yakov... Please...”

“Oh, Vitya, no.” Yuuri finally seems to understand what he means. “No, don't worry about that.”

“But you have... you have Rostelecom... you need...”

“Vitya... I already pulled out.”

Viktor stops, and a wave of something terrible makes him feel suddenly like he's falling.

He blinks at Yuuri, not fully understanding.

He shakes his head.

“No... Yuuri...”

“Viktor, I pulled out. I pulled out for the rest of the season. So did Yura.”

Viktor's eyes burn, fresh tears pushing past, down his cheeks. The sense of falling worsens, his head dizzy and no... no, no, no, they couldn't... because of him... they'd couldn't...

“No Yuuri...” he begs. “No...”

“It's alright Viktor. None of that matters. Don't you understand? It doesn't matter. You matter. We aren't going to leave you.”

Viktor can't help himself. He begins to weep bitterly again, broken sobs slipping free.

“No Yuuri,” he cries helplessly. “No, no...”

“Viktor... Vitya... stop. Oh, please, listen to me. I don't care. Neither does Yura. This was... this was our decision. We're both okay with it.”

“... But you... you're going to win... the Grand Prix and... and Olympics, Yuuri. You and Yura can...”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“No, Viktor. We don't... it wouldn't mean anything without you there. Okay? We don't want to skate without you.”

The falling sensation turns to fear, his stomach sinking, panic crushing again at his heart.

“Yuuri, no, please... please... you have to skate without me. You have to. You won't... you won't ever skate again, if... if you...”

He watches the tears form in Yuuri's eyes. Watches them fall, and Yuuri does nothing to hide them, and Viktor thinks how brave his Yuuri is. He's so brave.

“Viktor, I'm going to skate again. I know I am. And I know, because so are you.”

He says it like it's true. Like he knows it's true.

Like he knows as well as Viktor knows he won't.

He shakes his head, desperate and afraid.

“Yuuri, please, no... no... don't... don't sacrifice yourself for me. Do not sacrifice your talent...”

“I'm not sacrificing anything Viktor. You're going to skate again. We're going to compete on the same ice again, together. You have to believe that. I believe it. I know it.”

Again Viktor shakes his head.

“I can't...” he weeps. “I can't Yuuri.”

“Yes you can. Viktor, yes you can.”

He looks away from Yuuri. He can't... Yuuri looks so certain. His eyes determined again, and Viktor can't. I can't stand to see it. To know he's going to fail. He's going to.

“Viktor...”

“How do you know?” Viktor asks weakly. 

There's no answer for long seconds, and Viktor keeps his eyes away. He can't bear it anymore.

“... Because I know you Vitya.” Yuuri finally says. “I know how strong you are.”

A bitter laugh escapes Viktor's throat. He doesn't mean for it to. It just does.

He isn't strong. He's weak. Weak, weak, weak. He's always been weak. 

Because this kept happening to him. Because it had always happened to him, and he'd never been able to fight back. He'd never...

Could only stand there and do nothing. Say nothing. Just stand there and be afraid. He was always so afraid.

That would only happen to someone who was weak...

“Viktor, listen. Listen. Do you trust me?” Yuuri asks, and his hands are on Viktor's face again. 

Viktor blinks at him.

More than anyone, he thinks. Anyone. He trusts Yuuri. His Yuuri.

“Yes... yes...” he answers.

Yuuri smiles at him. 

“Then trust me on this. Trust me Vitya. You're going to skate again. We're going to skate again together, on the same ice. I know it. And I know it because I know you Vitya. I know how brave you are, and how strong,” Yuuri's voice begins to waver, strained with held back tears. “I know nothing can stop you when you put your mind to it. I know you're the most... the most amazing person I've ever met. Okay? You're the most incredible human being, and you're so good, and so kind, and so sweet and I don't... I don't care what the doctors say, or what... what those monsters did to you... it doesn't matter. They don't matter. You matter. None of them can take your skating from you. None of them can do that. Not unless you let them.”

Viktor wishes that were true. God, he wishes... 

It seems so impossible. 

But Yuuri is looking at him with so much confidence. So much belief. And he can't do that to Yuuri too. He can't take that belief away from him. Not when he's already taken away so much.

“Okay?” Yuuri asks him, desperate.

“... Okay.” Viktor tells him.

He crushes down the words of doubt which coat his tongue. 

Swallows them down, like bitter poison.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my thanks to all my readers! Your support means so much to me!
> 
> Here's a sweeter chapter to hopefully balance out some of the angst, haha! Although it still leans towards a little bit sad. Hopefully you guys enjoy it nonetheless! Please if you have a chance, leave a review! They help to keep me motivated to keep going!

Yuuri remembers with absolute, striking clarity, the moment he realized he was in love with Viktor.

Of course he'd loved Viktor for most of his life, in the way you love someone whom you idolize. 

As a child, he'd seen Viktor as this perfect, ethereal being. Like a magical creature, too pure to ever really reach, or touch.

It was the brilliance of Viktor's skating which had reinforced that notion, of course. The way he moved on the ice. He had such unbelievable grace and beauty and speed. Yuuri had never seen anything like him. Still hadn't, in truth. How could you not love Viktor, after watching him skate?

But the moment he'd fallen in love with Viktor... that had been different.

The moment he'd realized how extraordinary Viktor really was. More than just the greatest figure skater of all time. So much more than just that.

Viktor was a special person. 

Yuuri had been struck by that thought like a hammer blow to the head, he remembers, one day at the beach in Hasetsu. A break day.

Viktor had always insisted on break days. Three days a week. Yuuri had been completely unsure of that, thinking it was too much, not understanding how he was ever going to get into good enough condition, how he was ever going to get sharp enough with that much time a week off. But Viktor had insisted. He would smile at Yuuri and say “It does no good to over work yourself. You need breaks, yes? As much for you mind as your body. Okay?”

Viktor, of course, had been right. Yuuri had, after a couple months, found the break days relaxing, soothing even, allowing him time to recharge his batteries, and assess his progress. He'd performed better because of it. He'd performed better because of a lot of things Viktor had suggested.

It was that day at the beach in Hasetsu, a few months after Viktor had shown up at Yu-Topia, offering to be his coach. He and Viktor had been walking side by side along the sand. It had been very early, so they had been the only two there, along with Makkachin, a comfortable silence between them.

Yuuri had been so relaxed and content, watching the sand beneath his bare feet, listening to the water and the gulls, that he'd nearly jumped out of his skin when Viktor had let loose a sharp gasp.

_“What!? What is it?!” Yuuri looks up at Viktor, a feeling of panic seizing his chest, thinking something was wrong._

_Viktor is standing there frozen, his hands clamped over his mouth, staring ahead of himself with wide eyes._

_“Viktor, what's wrong?!” Yuuri asks, the panic worsening as Viktor fails for several, long seconds to respond._

_Finally his hands drop from his mouth, and he points down the beach, his eyes luminous, lips pulling into a his wide, heart shaped smile._

_“Yuuri! Look!” He says, a tinkling, childlike laugh bubbling up from his throat._

_Yuuri casts his gaze down the beach, where Viktor is pointing, and up ahead, maybe 50 meters away, is what Yuuri can tell is a sea turtle, lying in the sand._

_Yuuri smiles. _

_“Yeah, I forgot it's mating season for them. You see a lot of them this time of year. She's probably laying her eggs.”_

_Viktor turns to him, his eyes still wide and bright with wonder._

_“Really!?” He asks, and he sounds so amazed, like he's never seen or heard of anything like it._

_“Yeah.” Yuuri looks up at him, his own smile growing at the excitement in sees in his new coach. _

_Viktor is adorable, he thinks, the way he gets so excited about things. He's unabashed in his excitement, Yuuri had begun to realize. He wasn't afraid of embarrassing himself._

_Yuuri's wished more than once he could be like that._

_“Can... can we get closer to look?” Viktor asks, and his voice matches his eyes for wonder. _

_Yuuri shrugs._

_“Sure, I don't see why not.” He answers, slightly bemused by Viktor's enthusiasm. Maybe he's never seen a turtle before? Well, probably not, coming from St. Petersburg._

_Viktor jumps, twirling in the air and clapping his hands together, and Yuuri's heart flip flops in his chest at the sight._

_God, Viktor really is the sweetest thing._

_Suddenly Viktor is taking hold of his hand, and he's running with him down the beach, towards the turtle, Makkachin barking excitedly and following after them._

_About ten meters away, Viktor slows to a walk, still holding Yuuri's hand and beginning to approach more cautiously._

_Makkachin starts to bark again as they draw nearer, and Viktor finally lets go of Yuuri's hand to bend down, looping an arm around Makka's shoulders and holding her gently._

_“Shh sweetie.” He coos at her. “Let's not frighten her.”_

_Makkachin calms down in Viktor's hold, and Viktor remains kneeling, his eyes fixed on the turtle in the same, naked wonder of before._

_“Oh, she's beautiful!” Viktor breathes, voice filled with awe. He shuffles closer on his knees, until he's only a few feet from the turtle._

_She's laying her eggs, like Yuuri predicted, and Yuuri steps closer, kneeling down beside Viktor, watching him._

_Viktor's smiling still, the expression small, almost reverent._

_“You're a beautiful girl.” He says to the turtle, voice hushed now. “Look at how beautiful you are!”_

_You're beautiful, Yuuri thinks, still looking at Viktor. And he really is. _

_Not just physical beauty, though Viktor had that in spades. _

_But Yuuri's thinking instead of Viktor's heart._

_Getting to know him these last, few months, really know him, the thing he's been struck most by is Viktor's kindness. _

_Yuuri doesn't think he's ever met a kinder, gentler person. _

_He treated Yuuri like he was an equal, which was absurd, Yuuri had thought, given who Viktor was, given what he had accomplished. Yuuri wasn't anywhere near his equal, and yet..._

_Viktor spoke to him with so much respect. Constantly reiterated to Yuuri that he was “gifted”, that he was “incredibly talented”, that he was “gorgeous” and “beautiful” and on and on. He was patient too, working with Yuuri on his jumps and choreography with so much understanding and calm. He would spend hours just helping him to get down the basic mechanics which he had been lacking, in his jumps especially, demonstrating to Yuuri how to take off and land on the proper edges, working to help Yuuri tighten his form in the air, breaking everything down piece by piece. Viktor had worn himself ragged more than once doing this, which Yuuri had always felt horribly guilty over, because he often got so caught up and excited himself about all he was learning from this amazing man, that he hadn't even noticed how tired Viktor was. Viktor never really complained. He would ask for breaks sometimes, collapsing onto the rink side bench, breathing heavily, and Yuuri would realize with terrible clarity that Viktor was worn out and exhausted. Would be reminded that Viktor wasn't training like he was, wasn't going for long runs every morning like he was. Hadn't, in truth, been in any kind of serious training for a few months, and so of course his stamina was down, and yet Yuuri had been so selfish to learn and learn and learn, to get better and better, that he hadn't stopped to think that Viktor wasn't in the right condition to maintain that kind of pace. Would realize he'd been demanding Viktor's attention and energy like some sort of parasite._

_And yet Viktor would only ever smile at him, and marvel at Yuuri's “amazing stamina”, and tell Yuuri that he'd never had stamina that good, and sure, sure, Yuuri had thought, that's why you can do four quads in your free program like it's no big deal. Why you can save the quad flip for the very end. Okay. But the thing was, Viktor meant it. He meant it when he said Yuuri was amazing, that he was gifted. When he said Yuuri had better stamina than him. He believed every word. He believed it so much, and because of that, Yuuri had begun to believe it too. Had begun to believe in himself._

_The realization of Viktor's kindness hadn't been entirely surprising._

_Yuuri had watched probably hundreds of interviews with Viktor over the years, and that good natured sweetness had always come through in every one._

_Maybe what was surprising was finding out just how real that had been. How much, in fact, that kindness had been all the more apparent for getting to know Viktor in person._

_Though there was something else in Viktor which didn't make itself obvious in interviews. Something which Yuuri had also come to realize Viktor actively covered when speaking publicly._

_Viktor sometimes seemed... sad. There was a definite melancholy in him which had never shown in any of the press interviews, covered up by his blinding bright smile, and positive attitude. But Yuuri can see that melancholy now, as he watches Viktor looking at the turtle. There's a sadness to his eyes, to his smile._

_Yuuri doesn't know where it comes from. What Viktor's really thinking. He's still too shy to ask, he thinks. Doesn't know if doing so would somehow upset Viktor. _

_Viktor doesn't... really talk about himself all that much, Yuuri has noticed. He always wants to talk about Yuuri. Wants to know about Yuuri, know about his life, his passions, his interests. He gives vague half answers whenever Yuuri asks him about his own life._

_So Yuuri keeps quiet, and keeps watching his new coach._

_Viktor lifts a hand, holding it suspended in the air. He swallows visibly a few times, before he asks, voice nearly a whisper it's so soft._

_“Do you think I could touch her?” _

_He asks Yuuri as if Yuuri is the one that should give him permission._

_Yuuri nods._

_“Sure. I've touched them before. They don't really seem to mind.”_

_Even with that information, Viktor seems to hesitate, his hand inching slowly nearer the turtle, his long, elegant fingers hovering over her shell for several long seconds, twitching slightly, before, with almost frightened caution, he touches the tips of his fingers to her shell, holding them there for a moment, before finally splaying his palm flat, just resting it there._

_He doesn't move for what must be nearly a minute, and Yuuri's about to ask what he's thinking, when Viktor finally tears his gaze from the turtle, looking at Yuuri with eyes so bright and filled with happiness, it nearly breaks Yuuri's heart. Viktor is smiling at him, broad and real, and he laughs again, that tinkling laugh._

_“Oh Yuuri, isn't she beautiful!?” He asks like a little boy, and Yuuri's eyes sting, nodding back weakly, trying to smile too._

_Viktor laughs again, before turning back to the turtle, leaning closer and beginning to speak to her in Russian. Yuuri has no idea what he's saying, but the sound of his voice is filled with love, soft and lilting. The turtle pushes her big fins through the sand, and if Yuuri was more romantic, he might think she was responding to Viktor's attention._

_Viktor is a romantic, and he apparently thinks this to be what's happening. He laughs again, delighted, and says more words to her in Russian, and God, Yuuri thinks, he loves this man. _

_He's in love with him._

_The realization comes so suddenly, it's like a bolt of lightening has just struck him dead. He can feel the color drain out of his face, his heart kick sickeningly hard in his chest. The familiar beginnings of anxiety._

_He's in love with Viktor Nikiforov. _

_Shit._

_He isn't given much time to think over the revelation in his mind, and his sudden anxiety ebbs to the back of it as Viktor keeps talking to the turtle, oblivious to Yuuri's internal meltdown._

_“You be safe now, sweet girl.” He tells the turtle, stroking his hand over her shell one last time before finally pulling away, getting to his feet._

_Yuuri stands up with him, and they both begin to dust the sand from their pants._

_Viktor straightens suddenly, eyes big with that childlike excitement again._

_“Let's build sand castles!” He declares happily._

_Yuuri blinks, and he can't quite keep the amused scoff from escaping past his lips._

_“Sand castles?” He asks, and Viktor nods._

_“Yes! Yuuri, it will be fun!” _

_Before Yuuri can protest, or express any further doubt, Viktor has hold of his hand again, and is dragging him away from the turtle, Makkachin following again with enthusiasm to match her owner's._

_Yuuri begins to wonder, after Viktor has sat them down in the sand and begun to build a sand castle, encouraging Yuuri to follow suit every few minutes, how this is even his real life. _

_Viktor is sitting cross legged, his tongue sticking out between his teeth in hilariously focused concentration as he tries making a castle. He's hopeless at it, Yuuri observes with amusement. Every time he tries building a tower, or a spire, or whatever, another part collapses. If Viktor is frustrated by his lack of success, he doesn't show it. He never seems to get angry, or discouraged. _

_Viktor isn't afraid to try things, even when he's no good at them. Even when he knows he'll most likely fail. It's one of the things Yuuri had found he admires most about his new coach. About his friend. There's so much courage in Viktor._

_It's another reminder to Yuuri that Viktor is, in fact, human. That he isn't perfect at everything. _

_Somehow, that only makes Yuuri love him even more._

_Yuuri is actually pretty good at making sand castles. He used to come down here to the beach all the time with his sister when they were children and do just that._

_Viktor, of course, notices, and his awe at Yuuri's abilities is, predictably, outsized. _

_“Yuuri! You're amazing! Your sand castle is so cool!”_

_Well, it isn't that good, Yuuri thinks, looking down at the structure he's built. He shrugs, slightly embarrassed by Viktor's over the top enthusiasm._

_“How did you get so many details?!” Viktor goes on, leaning closer to inspect Yuuri's castle. “Wow!”_

_“I just... use a stick to etch them in. I mean... it's nothing special.”_

_“How can you say that?! Yuuri, it's so cool!” _

_Yuuri laughs. Viktor really is like a child in so many ways._

_“I used to come down here with Mari and build sand castles with her. I guess I just got good at it over time.” He offers._

_Viktor is still looking at Yuuri's castle, and Yuuri sees a distant look come into his eyes. That strange sadness again. His smile fades a little, but still sits there on his lips as he nods._

_“That must have been fun.” He says softly._

_Yuuri nods._

_“Yeah.” He agrees, thinking back on those days. It had been fun. It had been so long since he'd really thought about it that he hadn't remembered until just now, but... having an older sister to hang out with had been really great. _

_Yuuri hadn't had a lot of friends growing up... well, that was being generous in itself. He hadn't had any friends growing up, really. But Mari had always been there. He'd always had her, and Maniko. _

_So, okay, he'd had two friends. And a loving mother and father._

_Truthfully, when he allows himself to remember his childhood, Yuuri thinks it had actually been a good one. He'd never been unhappy then. Only later... when he'd started to feel so unsure of everything... when he'd started to feel unsure of himself..._

_Viktor's eyes are still on the castle, still with that sad sort of smile curving at the corners of his lips._

_And Yuuri can't help himself, his curiosity getting the better of him, his wish to know what Viktor is thinking. He hates that he doesn't really know. Hates that he can see that sadness, and doesn't know where it's coming from._

_“You didn't have any siblings growing up, did you?” He asks. _

_He already knows Viktor didn't. All it took was a quick look at his Wiki page to know that. Of course, information on Viktor's personal life had always been glaringly scarce. There were surface facts known to the general public. Like how Viktor had, almost unbelievably, come from humble beginnings, his mother a school teacher and his father a supervisor at a construction company of some sort. That he'd been born in St. Petersburg, and had lived there all his life. Simple, trivia kind of facts which really didn't tell you anything about Viktor at all._

_And Viktor spoke so rarely about himself... _

_He watches as Viktor shakes his head, finally looking up at him._

_“No.” He answers. “It was just me.” He smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes. That's something else Yuuri had begun to notice. Viktor has so many different smiles. Only a very few ever look truly happy. _

_“Was that... I mean... was it lonely, growing up without any siblings?” Yuuri dares._

_“... Sometimes, a little.” Viktor answers after a moment. “But I had Yakov, and Lilia, and of course all my friends at the rink!”_

_Viktor's voice is so cheery when he says it, and it strikes Yuuri as blatantly false, in a way he rarely picks up on from Viktor._

_“What was it like having an older sister?” Viktor changes the subject so seamlessly, Yuuri almost doesn't notice._

_“It was cool. I mean...” Yuuri starts before he even realizes what's happened. “Having an older sibling usually means having to put up with obnoxious older sibling behavior.” He laughs, and Viktor's smile is genuine this time as he laughs with him. “I think Mari thought it was her obligation to make my life a living hell for a while.” He goes on, smiling. “But I got her back when she started to go through puberty. If you could have seen how boy crazy she was. I think she must have been in love with a different guy every week, and of course she'd end up in tears every time things inevitably didn't work out, only for her to have someone new the very next day.”_

_Viktor laughs heartily this time, slapping at his knee, and it makes Yuuri laugh the same._

_//_

_They leave the beach in the early afternoon, and on the way back to Yu-Topia, Viktor stops to say hello to every person they pass by, to ask them how they are, waiting and actually listening to what they say back, good or bad. He's not asking just to be polite. There's always at least one person who's honest and will say “not so great”, and Viktor will ask them what's wrong, and try to give them words of encouragement once they get over their shock at someone actually wanting to know. He does this every day when they go out, without fail. It often makes them late in getting to the rink, and Yuuri still doesn't know how he does it. How he finds the energy to care about other people so much._

_When they get back to the inn, Yuuri's mother greets them at the door, and Viktor runs up to her, sweeps her up into a hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in the air. Yuuri's mother laughs, slapping playfully at Viktor's chest when he finally puts her down, her cheeks actually flushing red in a blush._

_“Vicchan!” She giggles, like a little school girl, and Viktor smiles down at her, broad and happy._

_Yuuri's in love with Viktor. He's so, so in love, and his heart is in pieces, because he knows Viktor doesn't love him back the same way._

Except... Viktor did love him back the same way. He always had.

Yuuri had just been too damn dense, and too insecure, to realize it. Until that night in Barcelona, when he'd been so sure that he was holding Viktor back, that he was ruining his life by taking him away from the ice. When he'd convinced himself, despite every immense act of affection and fondness and love that Viktor had shown to him over those first eight months, that Viktor could never possibly want to be with someone like him, and that if he truly loved Viktor, he would let him go.

That had been the first time Yuuri had ever seen Viktor cry.

He remembers how, when he'd seen the tears gathered thick in Viktor's eyes, and he'd watched them slip slowly down his pale cheeks, it had felt like someone had punched him straight in the gut.

He hadn't known before then, he hadn't realized, how much he meant to Viktor. 

… How much Viktor needed him.

He knows it now.

Viktor was fragile. That was the thing.

If someone had told Yuuri that two years ago, before he'd met Viktor, he would have laughed in their face. 

Sometimes, Yuuri thinks, his fiance resembled nothing so much as he did a beautiful flower, delicate and rare. Frail enough, then, a strong gust of wind would surely shatter it to pieces.

He holds Viktor's hand now, carding his fingers gently through his fiance's hair, the usually feather soft strands matted and rough with sweat. Viktor is nodding off slowly, his head lolling to the side against his pillow. His skin is ashy pale and covered in a light sheen.

The nurse had just been in to change out his morphine drip. 

Viktor struggles against it to stay awake, and Yuuri wishes he wouldn't. If he wanted to sleep, that was alright.

“You can sleep Vitya.” He tells him softly.

Viktor's eyes keep drifting closed and popping open, and he turns his face to look up at Yuuri, and he smiles his sad smile, and Yuuri feels his heart fall apart like shattered glass.

“... My Yuuri.” He says, his voice still barely able to go above a whisper. Still rough and strained from his larynx being almost crushed. “Oh, will you go home soon to rest?”

Viktor is asking after him. He's worried about Yuuri and how much time he's spending here in the hospital. Like he isn't the one who's bed ridden with countless broken bones. Like he isn't the one who'd nearly died...

Yuuri shakes his head.

“No. I'm going to stay the night tonight. Okay? I want to be near you.”

“... Is Makkachin with...?” 

“She's with Yakov.” Yuuri tells him, smiling weakly as he again cards his fingers through Viktor's hair, watching his eyes droop closed.

“... Okay.” Viktor murmurs. 

“Try to sleep, alright?”

“... Okay.” Viktor breathes so softly, Yuuri can barely hear him at all.

He lets his eyes stay closed this time, and Yuuri leans down to kiss his lips, dry and chapped against his mouth, the taste of dried blood against his tongue.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn something more of Viktor's past, courtesy Yuuri speaking to Yakov...

Yuuri doesn't know much about Viktor's childhood.

It's something he's always been aware of, in a detached, uncomprehending sort of way. 

Viktor didn't talk about his childhood. 

He didn't talk about his parents.

The one thing Yuuri does know about them, is that they'd forced Viktor out of his only home when he'd been thirteen years old, because they'd found out he was gay, and that Viktor hadn't spoken to them since. 

They'd seen him, Viktor had said, kissing another boy. Viktor said he'd tried to keep it a secret, because of course he knew. He knew his mother and father wouldn't “approve”. That was the word Viktor had used. 

He'd related this story to Yuuri, only because, early on in their relationship, Yuuri had asked, completely innocent and ignorant, when he was going to get to meet Viktor's parents.

And he'd related it in a way that was so unlike Viktor, that it had immediately set Yuuri on edge. Viktor's voice had been flat. Almost monotone. He hadn't seemed upset. He hadn't seemed happy, or sad, or angry. Hadn't seemed like he felt anything about it at all. He'd had the fakest smile plastered on his face that Yuuri had ever seen though. He remembers that, because it had been so bizarre. The contrast of that with Viktor's emotionless, nonchalant tone.

Viktor was a high energy person. He was excitable to the point of silliness. He woke up early, really early, every morning because, he said, he wanted to experience as much as he could before the day was through. He expressed his interest and joy in things by jumping up and down and twirling in the air and clapping his hands in absolutely infectious enthusiasm. He could talk and talk endlessly, for hours, about those same interests, the passion in his voice never hidden. Open and raw for the world to hear. His eyes sparkled, vivid with life and emotion. 

Some people, Yuuri knew, would think Viktor was positive to the point of near unbelievability. Except that, it wasn't unbelievable. Viktor was really just like that. He laughed and smiled more freely and genuinely than anyone Yuuri had ever met.

That kind of feeling for life, though, meant deep feeling for everything. 

Viktor rarely grew angry. But when he did, you knew it. Just like you knew it when he was feeling sad. His emotions were always etched, naked and stark on his face. 

For him to show no emotion at all then, for him to then try to cover that over with such a blatantly forced expression... It was troubling.

Yuuri guesses maybe he'd just never had the courage to press Viktor then. To ask him to tell him more. Maybe, Yuuri thinks, because he'd himself been afraid to know.

Yakov is looking back at him now with tired and stern eyes, his face lined deep with his frown. He looks unhappy. More than usual, anyway. Of course he did. What else could Yuuri expect?

“Why do you want to know about Vitya's parents?” He asks, and the suspicion is plain in his voice.

Yuuri fidgets, nervousness gripping his insides, and he looks away.

“... I don't know. I just... they must know... what happened. It's all over the news...”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Yakov answers, voice clipped. “What does it matter?”

“... Because, I mean... wouldn't... wouldn't they care? Wouldn't they be worried?”

“No.”

Yuri blinks.

“... What?”

Yakov looks, impossibly, somehow more unhappy, his eyes narrowing at Yuuri.

“No, they wouldn't care. They wouldn't be worried.” He answers again. 

Yuuri stares back at him, feeling lost and uneasy. 

“But...” he tries, not understanding.

“Vitya's parents are not good people Yuuri. Not good. Not kind.” Yakov cuts him off sharply. “They were not kind to Vitya.”

Yuuri feels his stomach lurch at the words, a sick dread settling into his pit.

He knew that was probably the case. He knew. He'd just never... really heard it put into words like that.

“... What does that mean?” He asks, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. 

“It means what it means.” Yakov answers. 

He sounds angry, and Yuuri thinks maybe he should drop the whole thing.

But then Yakov's face seems somehow to soften, and he sighs, looking away.

He says nothing else for a moment, and Yuuri isn't stupid enough to try and fill the silence. There was something delicate here. Something he really knows nothing about. And so he waits.

“... They would say things to Vitya, Yuuri. Unkind things. Cruel things. Vitya is strong. You know this. But he was only a child then. It left him... how do you say in English... it left him unwell, in some ways. I think... sad...”

Yakov's expression has shifted. Etched still with deep lines, but no longer frustrated or angry. He looks tired now. Almost grieving.

Yuuri's heart drops at the words, his eyes suddenly burning.

Oh, Vitya...

“... Did they... I mean...” he doesn't even know what he's trying to ask. Doesn't know if he wants to know, whatever it is.

Yakov frowns.

“... Vitya never said anything about being struck. Nothing about physical punishment, if that's what you mean to ask. What they did to him was, I think, in some ways worse. They were unkind.” He repeats, his frown deepening, as if he's trying to come up with the right words to say. “You know how Vitya is. He... feels things very much. Everything comes to him, right here.” Yakov pounds his fist against his own chest, indicating his heart.

Yuuri nods, the burning in his eyes worsening.

Yakov nods in return.

“... He never wanted to go back home. When he was very young. Eleven, twelve, thirteen... after practice... Vitya never wanted to go back home because... it was very hard for him. Sometimes, you know, he would cry. He would cry and ask me 'Can I come home with you instead?'. I wanted to let him, but without the consent of his parents...” Yakov shrugs. “You understand? There was nothing I could do.”

Yuuri nods, and he thinks his heart might shrivel to nothing as he imagines it. 

He'd never been able to tell, all those years ago, back in Japan, watching Viktor competing on the television. Viktor had seemed like an angel to him then. Beautiful and perfect. Always smiling, his eyes gleaming with so much life and joy. He'd never been able to see even a hint of the pain Yakov was now relating to him. None of the sadness. How Viktor could have smiled through that kind of hurt, how he could have hidden it from the prying eyes of the world...

God, he must have felt so alone then. To feel so unloved by your own parents, you didn't even want to go home.

Yuuri can scarcely imagine it. His own parents had been so loving and warm towards him. Completely accepting, despite the fact that Japan itself had a less than accepting attitude towards homosexuality. His own mother and father had never cared that Yuuri was gay. Neither had his sister. Their love for him had never wavered. Had never been conditional.

Yuuri doesn't understand anything sometimes. He doesn't understand why a person as good and as kind and as sweet as Viktor had to suffer in the ways that he had.

“... What... what did they say to him, that made him afraid to go home?” He forces himself to ask.

Yakov looks back to him, seeming again to study him, eyes scrutinizing.

“... Vitya's told you none of this?” He asks, and Yuuri shakes his head.

“No.” He answers. “And I didn't want to push him.”

“There's a reason Vitya doesn't talk about it.” Yakov says, and Yuuri nods.

Yakov sighs.

“But, you're going to marry him. Yes? So I suppose you have a right to know some things. Vitya would tell you, if you asked him.”

“... I don't want to upset him now though.” Yuuri admits. 

Yakov nods in understanding.

“I can tell you what little I know. But Vitya never spoke at length about it, even to me. Even as a child. I know the worst of it, he's never told to anyone.”

The room falls silent then, and Yuuri can feel himself holding his own breath. He's frightened, he thinks, to hear this. Frightened by what it means for Viktor. By how it will shape Yuuri's understanding of Viktor. It won't make him love Viktor any less. Yuuri knows that with absolute certainty. Nothing could. But he worries that it will effect the way he handles Viktor. He doesn't want Viktor to ever feel like he's being pitied. 

“I know they never supported him in his skating.” Yakov says. “Of course, they understood Vitya had talent, in the way people who know nothing about this sport understand it, and only because I explained to them how Vitya was a gifted child.” The old coach shrugs, a look of disgust passing over his features a moment. “They only cared because they understood too it could one day make them money. They would ask me, all the time, how does sponsorship work, what about prize money, things like that. They wanted to know how much Vitya could make by winning. They always wanted to know that.”

Already Yuuri feels sick, a swell of anger building in his chest at Yakov's words.

“When I first met Vitya, he was a six year old boy. Very young, but already his talent was obvious. He could do things I'd never seen a child so young able to do. Things many older children could not. Very gifted. The most gifted child I had ever seen. 

I tried to convince his mother first, since she had been the one to bring him to the rink that day. I said to her, 'Mrs. Nikiforov, I want to train your son. I want him to join my skate club.'. I had been watching this boy for maybe an hour, skating on the ice. He was incredible. You know? I could see immediately. Extraordinary coordination. Incredible speed and lightness. It was maybe his second or third time on ice. He already showed such perfect balance. Could already do advanced spins, and even some jumps. Singles of course, but still. He had no experience, and he could do these things. It was unbelievable.”

Yuuri nods, not at all surprised to hear it. Of course Viktor's talent had been clear from the beginning.

“Vitya was very young, and very shy.” Yakov's lips pull up for a moment into a rare smile, his eyes distant and fond. “He was that way for a long time, if you can believe it. Until maybe fifteen, sixteen years old, and he started to become a more outward person. I remember. I spoke to him that first day, and he wouldn't even look at me. He spoke so softly, I could hardly hear him at all. I asked him his name, and asked him then where had he learned to skate so well. Surely, I thought, he had taken lessons of some kind. He must have, to be able to know how to do spins and jumps as he was doing. But he shook his head and told me he had learned by watching the skaters on the television. I could hardly believe it. It seemed impossible. And I thought, such a small boy, such a shy boy, you know? He barely reached my knee. But such incredible talent. And I wanted more than anything to help him. Because I knew. I could see even then, he had what it would take to become a great skater. More than that, even, I could see the joy it brought him. Out there on the ice, he smiled and his eyes were bright. I wanted him to have that happiness.”

The tears finally push past in Yuuri's eyes, and he wipes them away as they begin to slide down his face. He nods, and Yakov goes on.

“His mother had hold of his arm, I remember. She tugged him too hard, I remember thinking. Vitya was a tiny thing then. You know? It was a shock when he hit his growth spurt and grew so tall! But I remember, and she looked at me with hard eyes, and said she wasn't interested in Viktor skating. She'd only brought him there because he'd begged her to. She said, I remember exactly her words, she said 'He wouldn't stop whining, so I brought him to shut him up'. I told her 'Your son has a gift, and I would like to train him.', and she asked me how much it would cost. I told her for the first six months, I would wave my fee, because I could see how talented this boy was. It would be a privilege to work with him. After that, we could discuss fees. She asked me then, and again, I remember her words exactly, she asked, 'Does it make money?'. I told her it could, if her son began to win real competitions. And she told me she would discuss is with her husband. I heard nothing from them for another month afterward. I didn't see Vitya again for a month. And then one day, they came back to the rink, the father with them this time. And they agreed to let me coach Vitya. 

For maybe the first two months, the mother would bring him to practice. The progress Vitya made then was not to be believed. He advanced more quickly than any child I'd ever seen. Of course, I wasn't surprised. He had the most natural talent. I was wrapped up in his ability, and I didn't notice at first, really, when Vitya would show up without his mother. I thought, well, she's dropping him off and leaving. There was no real reason for her to stay beyond that. So I thought, okay, it makes sense. The winters here are bitter. You know this. I realized Vitya was walking to the rink by himself when he came in one day violently shaking from the cold. He'd walked all the way by himself, five miles. A little, six year old boy. I had to take him to the hospital to make sure he wasn't hypothermic.”

“My God...” Yuuri breathes. He can't believe what he's hearing. Viktor had never said a word of this to him.

Yakov nods, his expression matching Yuuri's horrified astonishment.

“I had one of my assistant coaches go around his house to pick him up every day after that. His mother and father didn't care. They neglected him. They didn't want to spend any money on his skating. You understand? I explained to them once, over the phone, that Vitya would need his own pair of figure skates. That he couldn't keep using the rentals at the rink. They didn't want to spend the money. They bought him this used pair of skates. Very cheap, bad skates. Of course, they fell apart very quickly, and they refused to buy him another pair. So I bought him a pair myself. I took that responsibility too. And when the parents somehow forgot to pay my coaching fee, which very often they did, I let it go. Vitya had nothing outside of his skating then. You understand?”

Yuuri nods, wiping again at his eyes. He doesn't know how much more of this he can stand to hear. His heart was in pieces.

“Of course, Vitya has paid me back a thousand fold for the money his parents stole from me then. I didn't want it. But you know how Vitya is. He insisted until I took it. He's a good boy. He's always been a good boy.”

“I know. God, I know.” Yuuri says.

Yakov pauses again, and he looks away from Yuuri now, his brow creasing.

“You know... he wouldn't say much, when I would ask him how things were at home. Usually he would just go quiet and say nothing. Sometimes though... he would come to the rink, and he would be upset. You know, sometimes he would start crying, and I would ask him what's wrong, and he would tell me things his parents had said to him. One day, I remember, Vitya was crying, and he said his mother had been screaming at him that morning, before he'd been picked up for practice. She'd told him she wished he'd never been born. She'd told him he was nothing but a curse. That he'd ruined her and her husbands lives by being born. That all of their own problems were his fault. Their bad marriage was his fault. Those were the kinds of things they said to him. A little boy. Of course he believed all of it. I know there were worse things even. Vitya would so often have this... confused look in his eyes. How do you say? Blank look? He wouldn't speak more than two words all day. There were things going on he wouldn't speak of. He never did. But I knew it was happening.

The worst maybe I saw was one day, his father had shown up to the rink. Half way through a typical day of practice. Vitya was maybe 8, 9 years old then. His father had shown up to take him somewhere. Vitya said nothing, but I could see, in his eyes. He didn't want to go with his father. He looked at me, I remember. He had fear in his eyes. I'll never forget that face. He wanted me to save him, I think. And I tried. I told his father, Vitya has a very important competition coming up in a few days. He couldn't afford to miss practice. I tried everything. It didn't matter to the man. And I watched him take Vitya away. I saw Vitya try to hold his hand, and his father shook him off, and put a hand on the boys back and shoved him forward, hard enough to make Vitya stumble and fall. It was such an unkind touch, I remember. So mean. And I knew, it was only a surface, that I was seeing. Only a surface of how they treated Vitya. It was abuse. You understand?”

Yuuri nods. Yes, he understood. He understood with awful clarity now. Understood why Viktor never spoke about his parents. Why he told Yuuri about his parent's rejecting him at 13 with no real emotion at all. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. It makes him want to weep bitterly.

“So not so shocking, really, when they told him to leave when he was 13. In a way, and I know it is an awful thing to say, but, in a way, it was the best thing for Vitya. To be out of that house. They didn't love him. They didn't treat him with love. The way any parent should treat their child. They made him feel worthless. Our Vitya. You know him Yuuri. He is a bright star.”

Yuuri half gasps, a sob lodging in his throat as he nods.

“The brightest star.” He says, voice wavering badly as he wipes at his eyes. He can see Yakov's eyes now too. Can see the tears standing in them. 

“So you understand, Yuuri? About Vitya's parents? That they won't care, whether they know or not?”

Yuuri nods.

“Then you won't try to contact them about Vitya?” Yakov presses, and Yuuri thinks he really shouldn't be surprised, that the old coach had gleaned his intention without him even stating it.

He'd been thinking of reaching out to Viktor's parents. Had thought, somehow, that maybe they didn't know. Had half talked himself into believing that was the reason they hadn't tried to get in touch. Hadn't tried to find out if Viktor was alright or not.

He knows better now.

And with the awful pain of Yakov's revelations, comes bitter anger and resentment.

He doesn't understand how any parent could treat their child that way. Let alone one like Viktor. The hideous cruelty and unfairness of it churns Yuuri's stomach then.

He shakes his head.

“No.” He promises, looking Yakov in the eye. “I won't contact them about Vitya. About anything. They don't... they don't deserve to be near him even.”

Yakov nods, the tension in his shoulders seeming to relax some.

“Good.” He says. “That's good.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Yuri self-reflects, and spends time with Viktor...

Yuri sighs, glancing round the room.

It's filled with flowers now, 'get well soon' cards, and all that crap. He guesses it at least offsets the sterile whiteness of the place. The blank walls and stark scent of antiseptics had been driving him crazy these last two weeks. The fragrant plants were an improvement, he could admit.

Of course, Viktor had reacted to all of the gifts like they were the greatest things in the world. He'd taken the time to read every card, to look over and smell every pot and bouquet of flowers.

He'd spent just as much time singing the praises of all the people who had sent the junk, talking about them like they were literal angels or something, going on and on about their generosity and kindness.

The worst part about all of it, Yuri thinks, is that Viktor had meant every word.

He was too fucking nice.

All of it had only left Yuri feeling angry. 

He'd been trying to work on his temper lately. He knew it was often out of hand. That he had a tendency to overreact to things. He'd tried telling himself that people were just trying to be nice, sending flowers and cards and candies to Viktor's room. 

But then he'd realized, if these same people thought that hollow, empty shit like that was somehow supposed to make any of this better, that it was supposed to somehow help Viktor, then they had no fucking clue what he, or any of them, were actually going through. And that pissed him off. It really fucking pissed him off.

The only one who had actually shown up in person had been Christophe. He was the only one who'd actually flown in and come to the fucking hospital to visit Viktor. Well, him and Yuuri's family.

And of course his own Grandpa had come, and Lilia, and their rink mates. But that was it. Nobody else could be fucking bothered. 

It wasn't important enough, Yuri thinks bitterly. Viktor getting beaten near to death wasn't a big enough deal for them to interrupt their precious lives.

Yuri scowls, trying to shove the thoughts away.

He doesn't want to think about this now. He doesn't want to waste the energy on getting mad. He was already so exhausted, already wiped out from all the rest of what he'd been feeling.

He glances down at his phone, seeing the time. 

It was just past twelve.

Yuuri and Yakov had gone home for the afternoon to get some sleep, and would be back, they said, before evening, leaving Yuri here to keep Viktor company. They'd been taking shifts like this the last week, trying to give each other some relief.

Yuri looks up, glancing at Viktor.

He's sleeping now. Had been, since Yuri had arrived.

The doctors said he was going to be here a long time. At least a month more, they said. After that, at least another six months for all of his bones to heal. And after that... physical therapy. 

Spending that long a time regulated to a bed and, eventually, they said, a wheelchair, Viktor was going to have to relearn how to walk. That was the main goal. It didn't account for everything else that could go wrong. There might be permanent nerve damage, they said. Already they'd found signs of it in Viktor's hands.

Apparently Viktor had, in an attempt to shield himself from the beating, curled his arms over his head, something he couldn't even remember doing. But because of it, his hands had been assaulted by the blows of the baseball bat, and now he was experiencing a burning, tingling sensation down through his fingers, to their tips. It was numbness, the doctors said. He might never regain full sensation in them. If he didn't, performing tasks as simple as writing, or holding utensils, was going to prove to be extremely difficult for him.

In a few days, they were going to remove the bandages from Viktor's head and face, and try to perform tests for the vision in his right eye and ear to see if he'd suffered any kind of blindness or deafness.

God...

Yuri feels his eyes burn as he looks over Viktor now, lying there, his chest rising and falling in a shallow, weak pattern. His head lolls to the side on his pillow, his hair mussed and greasy looking, and Yuri's gaze catches on the line of saliva escaping the corner of Viktor's slightly parted lips, pooling in a dark puddle of drool beneath his cheek. His skin is sallow. Sickly pale and sweaty.

Because Viktor can't make it to the bathroom now, they've got a catheter in him, so he doesn't fucking piss all over himself. Knows that's what the bedpan beneath the bed is for too.

Yuri looks away a moment, feeling his throat constrict, his stomach clenching in painful dismay.

He hates seeing Viktor like this. God he fucking hates it. 

It felt so fucking wrong.

Viktor was always so well put together. Always dressed in the best clothes, always so clean cut and neat in everything, his presentation always so perfect. 

He must have hated looking like this. Being seen like this.

Yuri forces himself to look back at him, and impulsively he stands, grabbing a tissue out of the box on the table by the bed, beside the sippy cup that Viktor needs to drink. He bends closer then, balling the tissue up, dabbing up the trail of saliva from the corner of Viktor's mouth.

He freezes when Viktor suddenly begins to stir, pulling his hand away and straightening.

He sees Viktor's face contort before he hears it. A soft, high pitched whimper slipping past Viktor's lips. A sound so naked with agony that Yuri feels his stomach drop out from under him, a shot of panic tightening in his chest.

Viktor's fingers spasm, curling into the sheets of his bed, and as his eyes come open, they're instantly filled with tears. A choked gasp catches in his throat, giving way to more, awful whimpering. 

He's in pain, Yuri's brain finally kicks into gear, the realization taking hard hold. Viktor's in horrible pain.

Yuri's eyes flit to the morphine drip they've got him hooked up to, sees the reading almost at empty.

“Fuck...” he mutters angrily, shoving the panic blooming in his chest down. How in the fuck had those stupid hag nurses forgotten to refill it?

“Oh, God...” Viktor's voice comes out trembling and weak and laced with pain. “God...”

“Viktor...” Yuri calls his name, looking intently at him.

Viktor doesn't seem to hear him at first, his face lining deeper, and his whimpering slides into a broken sob, and then another as he begins to really cry.

“Viktor, shit, h-hold on... I'm going to call the nurse. Your morphine's out.”

Finally Viktor seems to realize he's being spoken to, his gaze shifting up, catching on Yuri's face. 

Yuri almost loses it. Viktor's looking at him with awful desperation. Like he's begging Yuri to help him.

Yuri doesn't even think as he reaches out suddenly, grasping hold of Viktor's hand. He squeezes down, looking Viktor in the eye.

“It's going to be okay Vitya.” He promises. “Alright? Just hold on a few minutes. I'm going to go get the nurse. Okay?”

Viktor blinks up at him, the tears in his eyes slipping free, rolling slow over his temple, into his sweaty hair.

He chokes out a sound, like he's trying to say something, but his voice comes out only a thin wheeze. 

“I'll be right back. Just a minute. I'll be right back.”

Reluctantly, Yuri lets go of Viktor's hand, and he doesn't give himself a chance to hesitate after that, running out of the room and yelling down the hall.

“Hey, somebody! SOMEBODY, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!”

He startles a nurse that's walking a little ways ahead of him.

“HEY!”

She turns, wide eyed at she takes him in.

“My friend's in pain!” Yuri spits at her angrily. “He needs his morphine refilled!”

The woman blinks at him, and Yuri nearly snaps at the lack of urgency he sees in her face.

“Did you fucking hear me!?” He growls. “He's in pain! He's in FUCKING PAIN! Somebody needs to fucking HELP HIM!”

“Oh!” The woman's brain finally seems to catch up with what he's saying. “Nikiforov?”

“Yes!” Yuri hisses. “Fucking hurry!”

The woman nods, and Yuri watches as she scurries off in the opposite direction, he guesses to get a fresh bag of morphine. That better be what she's doing, he thinks viciously, or he swears...

She appears again after less than a minute, bag in hand, and Yuri turns, heading back towards Viktor's room, expecting her to follow.

Bursting back into Viktor's room, and Yuri sees him lying still on the bed. Only he's in some kind of frantic state, trying with his right arm to push himself to a sitting position. His chest heaves with wracking sobs.

“Vitya, no!” Yuri nearly shouts, lunging forward to stop him before he hurts himself.

“It hurts!” Viktor weeps brokenly, his voice shaking so hard, it's hard to understand what he's saying. “I-it hurts!”

“I know! Vitya, I know. Ju-just hang on, the nurse is here. She's going to help you.” 

“P-please...” Viktor cries. “Please...”

Yuri grasps hold of Viktor's hand again, laying another on Viktor's shoulder and holding him down.

“It's okay. It'll be okay.” He promises. 

Viktor is shaking, the tremors working from his hand, up into Yuri's arm.

Yuri shoots his glare at the nurse, who's fumbling to remove the empty bag of morphine from the drip and replace it.

“Come on, hurry up!” He snaps at her.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he's being unfair to the woman. But he's in too much of a state of panic to really care.

Finally she succeeds in replacing the bag, and she opens the valve to begin administering the pain killer.

Yuri watches the golden liquid as it makes it way through the clear plastic tubing, into Viktor's arm.

“How long before it works?!” He demands of the nurse.

“It should only be a moment before it takes effect.” She reassures. “I'm so sorry. I don't know who was in charge of keeping watch on this, but I'm going to find out.”

Yuri scowls at her.

“Don't apologize to me! Apologize to him! He's the one who's in pain!”

Yuri looks back down at Viktor, and already he can see his lids half falling, his eyes growing glassy, the lines etching his face relaxing as the pain begins to ease.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Nikiforov. Are you alright now?” The nurse asks him, seeming unruffled by Yuri's bad attitude. “Do you need anything else? The pain should, hopefully, be mostly gone in just a few minutes.”

Viktor takes a long moment to seemingly register her question, and he shakes his head weakly, staring listlessly ahead at nothing.

“... 'm alright.” He slurs slightly. “Th-thank... thank you.”

The nurse nods.

“Of course. Again, I'm so sorry.” She looks up at Yuri. “Do you need anything?”

Yuri blinks at her, surprised she even asked.

He shakes his head.

“Alright then, I'll leave you two be for now.” She says, and turns to leave.

“... Thank you!” Yuri blurts behind her, realizing abruptly that he should show her some gratitude. 

She turns, smiling tightly over her shoulder at him and nodding, before disappearing through the door, closing it softly behind her, giving them privacy. 

Yuri looks back at Viktor. He's still holding his hand, and he notices now that Viktor is squeezing his hand back, his grip weak but obvious.

“You okay now?” Yuri asks hesitantly.

Viktor nods slowly.

He looks so fragile. Like too strong a breeze might break him all apart. 

Yuri looks away again. He hates it. He hates all of it.

“... Thank you Yura.” He hears Viktor say, his voice as frail sounding as the rest of him, trembling and almost too soft to hear. He sounds completely spent. Exhausted. 

There's none of the energy or brightness Viktor has always had in his voice. 

“It's fine.” Yuri says dismissively, feeling suddenly awkward.

Viktor shakes his head, and there's still tears sliding slow down his face.

“No, I... you helped me. I don't know what I could have done w-without you Yura. I don't know...” his voice trails off, and he looks so openly stricken for a moment, that Yuri feels his own eyes start to burn again.

“It's alright.” He forces out. “Hey, give me my hand back so I can pull a chair over.”

“O-oh!” Viktor starts, his hand loosening around Yuri's. “S-sorry.”

Yuri shakes his head, turning and dragging the chair closer to Viktor's bed, falling down into it.

“Here.” He reaches his hand back out.

Viktor looks at him with wide eyes. The whites of them had finally started to clear up. At least his left eye had. Thank God. The blood had been starting to freak Yuri out. Still, Yuri has no idea what's going on underneath the bandages covering Viktor's right eye. He isn't sure he wants to know.

He scowls.

“What?!” He snaps. “Come on!” He gestures for Viktor to give him his hand. “... You seemed like you wanted something to hold on to, so...”

His face feels hot, but he refuses to let his embarrassment fuck this up. Viktor needed help.

Finally Viktor reaches back out, and Yuri feels the damp palm of his hand slide into his own. Yuri squeezes.

“See?!” He snaps again. “Easy!”

God, his face must be bright red. Fucking shit.

Viktor smiles at him. Another pale imitation of what it usually was.

“Easy.” He agrees, eyes over bright. 

Yuri huffs, suddenly not knowing what else to say. 

He'd begun to realize, over these past couple of weeks, that the way he'd always talked to Viktor had been... mildly aggressive. 

Alright, if he was being honest with himself, sometimes more than mildly. 

More than half the words out of his mouth, directed at the older skater, had been insults, he thinks.

He'd never meant any of them.

It was just the way he felt comfortable talking to Viktor. 

Maybe because Viktor was always so cool about it. It didn't matter what Yuri said to him. What names he called him. Whether he called him old, or stupid, or gross, or washed up. Viktor always just smiled at him. Half the time, to Yuri's frustrated confusion, he would agree with his insults.

… There's been too much time to think, lately. With his season called off. 

Self-reflection wasn't something Yuri enjoyed. But sitting here in the hospital for hours on end, most of the time with Viktor passed out from his pain meds, all Yuri had was time to think.

He'd begun to realize he only felt comfortable talking the way he did to Viktor because he fucking admired him, and he didn't know how to handle those feelings. 

He used to sometimes think he really hated Viktor. Used to convince himself Viktor was an actual airhead idiot. He had to be, with how fucking ridiculous and silly and happy he seemed to be all the time. Nobody with any brains in their head could possibly be that positive.

But Viktor wasn't an idiot. 

He was anything but.

He picked up new languages like it was as easy as breathing, for one thing. The bastard was already almost fucking fluent in Japanese, on top of the three other languages he was fluent in.

He knew all kinds of shit about a million different things too. It seemed like he'd read every piece of classic literature that had ever been written. Knew all kinds of history. Like, not just facts. He could tell you in the most fucking boring, brain numbing detail the reasons behind why certain historical events had happened, what had led to them. The social or political or cultural foundations for all that shit.

He knew about all these different philosophies. Could talk about them like he actually fucking got them. 

Yuri's brain felt like it was going to explode every time he tried reading something written by Nietzsche or whoever the fuck. 

Not to mention he was a fucking genius on the ice. 

The one consolation, Yuri thinks, is that Viktor was fucking awful at math. Like really bad. He couldn't even do the most basic multiplication or division. He had to count using his fingers. That, at least, was something both he and Katsuki had over Vitya. 

But Viktor was no idiot.

And Yuri had never hated Viktor at all. He'd never even really been mad at him. 

No. Instead it was more that he wanted to be like Viktor. Wished he could have Viktor's positivity. Wished he could see things in that same way.

That had made him mad. 

So he'd lash out.

He guesses Viktor always took it so well because he probably knew. 

That in turn had used to piss Yuri off. Because it was Viktor's positivity again. His ability to seemingly take everything in such easy stride. 

But... he couldn't find it in himself anymore, to get angry about it.

When he let himself think about it, Viktor's patience and kindness towards him all these years, despite Yuri's at times almost merciless berratment and constant insults, was the very thing in Viktor that Yuri wished to be more like. The thing in Viktor he most admired. Besides of course his brilliance as a figure skater. It was hard always being so angry. It was exhausting. More, it was stupid, to be pissed at someone just for being too fucking nice. 

Maybe the anger came from the fact that Yuri wished, just once, Viktor would show some kind of anger himself, for the way life and other people had often treated him.

But even now, after what had happened, Yuri got no sense of anger from Viktor. Only a deep sadness. He hadn't even said anything negative about the piles of shit that had attacked him. He didn't talk about them.

That's something Yuri can't understand at all.

Yuri thinks, if this had happened to him, he would be filled with uncontrollable rage.

“Yuuri told me how the both of you have pulled out of the rest of the season.” Viktor's voice carries softly to his ears, and Yuri looks up at him, not realizing how he'd been letting his mind drift. Viktor's looking back, his eyes bright and so openly pained, it's hard to hold his gaze. “... I wish you hadn't.” 

Yuri scowls, shaking his head.

“We had to. We couldn't just fly off to competitions while you were in here.”

Viktor looks away from him, his eyes casting down.

“... But it's so unfair to you.” He whispers, and Yuri feels his scowl deepen, anger flaring in his chest.

“Unfair?! You want to talk about unfair? What about what happened to you!?”

Viktor doesn't say anything, keeping his eyes away, even as his face lines in some unspoken agony, and Yuri can feel his own temper ratcheting up.

He feels frustrated at Viktor suddenly. Angry at the resignation in him.

“Don't you fucking care!?” He snaps, his voice rising. “Don't you... don't you want to fucking get the mother fuckers that did this to you!? Don't you want to see them pay!?”

“... Yura...” 

“You were gonna win another Olympic gold Viktor!” Yuri talks over him. “Another world title too! Who fucking knows how many times you would have broken your own fucking world records over the rest of the season! And those fucking pigs _stole_ that from you! All of that! Why aren't you more fucking _pissed_!? Huh? You should be fucking angry!”

“... Please, Yura.” Viktor says, his voice trembling, desperate sounding. Like he's on the verge of tears again. 

Yuri stops, realizing with horror he's been yelling at Viktor, guilt crushing down on his heart.

“... I... sorry... I'm sorry Vitya, I didn't... fuck, I didn't mean to...”

“... It's alright.” Viktor says, almost too softly to hear.

A heavy silence falls between them, Yuri struggling with how to fill it, embarrassed at his outburst, ashamed of how insensitive it had been.

It wasn't like Viktor wasn't aware of what he'd been robbed of. He knew it better than any of them, probably. Felt the weight of it more than any of them.

“... I am angry.” 

Yuri looks up.

Viktor is staring down at his lap, his eyes distant.

He smiles suddenly, looking up at Yuri, a grief in his eyes and in the twisted pain of his lips. 

“I know I should be angry at those men. I am, maybe somewhere. But, more, it's anger with myself.”

“With yourself?” Yuri starts, indignant.

Viktor still has that awful, pained smile on his face as he nods.

“I know, for you perhaps, it is difficult to understand. Only... you see, I think I should know better, by now, then to so easily trust, when my instincts tell me not to. And yet still I do, and this happens. And I ruin so many things for so many people, because I'm not so smart. Yes? I'm stupid.”

“You're not stupid Viktor!” Yuri snaps, not believing what he's hearing. His heart beats suddenly too hard in his chest, a sick feeling in his stomach, listening to Viktor talk about himself this way.

Viktor only keeps smiling at him, that sad, awful smile.

“You're very kind Yura.” He says. “You always have been, of course. Remember you would spend time with me when you were younger?” Viktor laughs weakly. “I know I was embarrassing to you, but you spent time with me anyway. You've always been very kind like that.”

“Fuck... shut the fuck up Viktor.” Yuri says, feeling his eyes burn. He wasn't going to fucking cry because of this fucking asshole. He wasn't. God damn it!

“And you're spending time with me now, when you should be off, winning your competitions, along with Yuuri. I've ruined that for you, too. For both of you. That hurts me very much Yura. It makes me wish I wasn't so stupid, such an idiot, when it has an impact of other people. It matters not so much for me. You understand? But when it hurts other people...”

Viktor's voice is shaking again, and the tears stand out, obvious in his eyes, and Yuri can't handle this. He can't, damn it, God damn it!

“This isn't your fucking fault Viktor! None of this shit is your fucking fault! Don't you get that?!” He spits, and he can't stop the tears which well in his own eyes, not even trying to stop them as they slip free, down his face. He's too upset. Too fucking angry. “Those fucks that beat you up are the only one's to blame! It's their fucking fault, not yours! But you really are an idiot if you think I didn't want to hang out with you Viktor! If you thought I was just doing it to be nice or whatever the fuck you think!” He hisses. “What the fuck is wrong with you!? You were the most famous figure skater on the fucking planet, and you fucking wanted to talk to _me_! Just some arrogant, snot nosed little brat who hadn't accomplished fucking anything! You wanted to spend time with me, when I was new to the rink and didn't fucking know fucking anyone! I didn't have any fucking friends, and Viktor fucking Nikiforov still thought I was important enough to give his attention to! Do you have any idea what that even meant to me, you fucking jerk!?”

Viktor blinks at him, a kind of shocked astonishment in his gaze. 

“... Yuri, I...”

“And another thing!” Yuri cuts him off before he can start. “You really think Yuuri would be able to focus on his performances out there, knowing you're in here, fighting for your fucking life?! With his fucked up anxiety!?” Yuri scoffs. “He wants to be here to take care of you, you stupid idiot! So let him! And I don't want to compete against the rest of those losers without you there! You're the one to beat. A win against anyone else would be meaningless, because I'd know in the back of my mind I didn't beat the best! So stop worrying about us, and focus on yourself!”

Viktor continues looking back at him a moment, before his eyes slide away.

“... You need more reason than me to motivate yourself Yura.” He says quietly after a long, few seconds. “My ability to continue competing wasn't going to last forever.”

Yuri frowns, a sick drop down through his stomach.

Wasn't, Viktor said. Like it was already over. Like he thought...

“You're going to compete again, asshole.” He snaps without really meaning to.

Viktor smiles. Again that same, sad smile, and Yuri can barely stand to look at it.

“Yuuri says the same thing.” He says in a whisper, his voice matching the smile.

“Yeah, well, for once Katsuki's right.” Yuri grumbles. 

“... I'm old Yura.” Viktor says, looking away.

“Yeah, _and_?” Yuri snaps. “That didn't matter for shit this season! You were still kicking all our asses. So you... you better get your ass back to the ice so I can beat you fair and square! Alright!?”

Viktor doesn't say anything, turning his face farther aside, so that Yuri can only see his profile now.

Yuri watches as a pronounced tremor works suddenly through his frame. His hand spasms and squeezes tighter where Yuri still holds it.

“... I'm sorry Yura.” He finally speaks, and Yuri can tell he's crying again. “... I'll try. I'll try to... I'll try not to fail... To be what you need me to be.”

That... wasn't what Yuri had wanted to hear. He hadn't wanted to make Viktor feel like he was being pressured to get better. He'd only been trying to... to be encouraging, or whatever the fuck. Damn it. Had been trying with his words to quash his own, awful doubts.

“Vitya, I didn't mean...” he starts, but Viktor keeps talking.

“... I'm scared Yuri.” He says, and Yuri suddenly feels like all the air's been sucked out of his lungs. Viktor laughs, the sound more like a half choked sob. “I don't want my career to be over. I don't want to have to stop competing. Maybe... maybe that's selfish of me. I know most skaters my age make the choice on their own to stop. And I've done all I can in this sport. I know I have nothing else to prove. I think, maybe, I should be gracious. Step aside for the future, for skaters like you Yura. But...” 

Viktor pauses, his breaths seeming to come too quick and too shallow.

“... Skating is all I've ever known. It's been my life, since I was a little boy. Six years old. I try to imagine a life without that and... I can't. I feel, when I do, like I can't breathe. It feels like some horrible weight, crushing my chest... I thought at first, maybe, you know, this would be my final year competing. But more recently, I thought... I've never felt better, physically, or mentally. Because of Yuuri... because of you too Yura. Both of you, you gave me the desire to win again. I felt excited, performing well, winning my competitions this season, like I haven't felt in many years. Proud, even. And I thought, maybe I could keep competing, another two, maybe even three years, if my body continues to hold up. But now...” 

Another pause, and Yuri can see Viktor bite down hard on his lip, another, harsh tremor working through his frame.

“... I don't know if I'll ever be able to skate again. If I can't... if I can't even work with Yuuri as his coach, or help you with your programs, I don't know what I'll do. I have no real abilities outside this.”

Yuri grits his teeth. He wasn't good with this sort of thing. He especially wasn't good with it coming from Viktor, who'd always seemed so strong. To hear him admit so plainly that he was scared, that he didn't know what to do, or if he had what it would take to recover fully, left Yuri feeling lost and confused himself.

“... You have plenty of money.” He tries lamely, even as he knows it isn't about that at all. He understands when Viktor says skating was his whole life. It was Yuri's too. He wouldn't know what he would do, if he couldn't skate anymore.

He also understands Viktor's pride in his abilities. His desire to keep going, knowing he could. Knowing he was somehow hitting his peak as a competitive ice skater. Why would anyone want to give that up? Especially someone as gifted as Viktor was? You would have to be crazy.

“I don't want to be useless though.” Viktor says. 

Yuri doesn't understand why Viktor's talking about himself this way. He doesn't understand how someone that accomplished could think of himself as ever being useless. He tells Viktor as much.

“You won't ever be useless Vitya.” His voice comes out quiet. “And anyway, it's useless to worry about it, because you are going to skate again. If anyone can do it, it's you. You're too much of a stubborn jerk not to!”

Viktor laughs. An actual, genuine laugh this time, frail and short lived as it is.

“... Maybe you're too stubborn to let me do anything less.” He says, and Yuri smirks at him.

“You're damn right, old man.” 

Viktor's smile is enough, Yuri thinks, to let him know he hasn't completely fucked this conversation up.

It's enough, he thinks, for now, to know Viktor can smile at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much guys, for all your support! Please leave a comment if you can!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yakov remembers the past...
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include mentions of homophobia and parental verbal and emotional abuse.

_“Come Vitya, are you ready?”_

_Yakov looks at Viktor, frowning as he takes in the boy's withering appearance, watching his delicate hands tighten over the strap of his backpack, his face turned to the floor and his narrow shoulders hunched._

_Never, Yakov thinks, has he ever seen Vitya look so much like the 13 year old boy he is._

_It's difficult. He wants to turn away and stamp the memories of the last few hours from his mind. He hates the way they make his own chest tight with pain. The way they make his eyes sting._

_Vitya nods, silent, his face gaunt and pale, and oh, he's just a little thing, Yakov thinks. A wisp of a child, and how, he wonders, how could anyone do this to him? Never mind the two people meant to love him without condition._

_Just a little more than two hours previous, Yakov had come to the rink, needing to pick up some papers from his office. It had been early. A little before eight in the morning, the sun just barely over the horizon._

_The offseason had just started a few days before, and all of his skaters had been given three weeks vacation to just relax, spend time with their families and so on._

_Yakov had nearly fallen over in his shock, then, when he'd been walking from his car to the main building, his face turned to the ground, lost in thoughts of all the seemingly endless tasks he had to take care of before his students came back to practice in a few weeks time, and he'd at last glanced up as he'd reached the rink's entrance._

_Sitting there, on the ground and huddled against the door, his face buried against his knees, had been Viktor._

_Of course, it would be impossible to mistake the boy. His waist length silver hair had given him away, even as it had curtained whatever might have been visible of his face. _

_At his side had been a worn looking backpack and his skates, and even from a distance of several yards, Yakov had been able to see the boy shivering violently against the still freezing chill of early morning in St. Petersburg, wearing nothing but an old looking, light winter coat, stupidly inadequate for the weather, thread bear jeans torn at the knees, and a pair of Vans sneakers that looked like they were ready to fall apart. No socks._

_Yakov had stared for a long moment in shocked disbelief, his mind struggling to provide him with a reason for why his most gifted student, a boy who had just turned 13 years of age less than three months previous, who, just weeks ago, had won silver at the World Junior Championships, losing by less than three points to a boy aged 17, was sitting out here by himself, at 7:53 AM, in the freezing cold, wearing practically nothing and looking completely miserable._

“Vitya?” Yakov calls, his voice low and careful, and he watches at the boy lifts his face suddenly, nakedly surprised. 

His vivid blue eyes blink up at him, round and frightened, and Yakov can see them rimmed red, plain signs of him having been crying.

Yakov frowns, a deep sense of unease taking hold of his insides.

“Vitya?” He says again, and he steps closer, until he's standing just in front of his student. “What the hell are you doing out here like this?”

He can see the open scramble in Viktor's expression, struggling for the words as he continues staring up at Yakov, his mouth opening and closing several times, swallowing visibly.

“... I... I...” he stammers.

Yakov reaches down, offering his hand.

“Here.” He says, and after a brief hesitation, Viktor reaches back. Yakov doesn't miss the way his hands tremble like the rest of him, and when his palm rests against Yakov's own, Yakov can feel his eyes go wide at how cold the boy's skin is.

He hauls Viktor up to his feet, and Viktor continues looking up at him with those same, scared eyes, before abruptly he looks away, and his arms come up around himself, an obvious and pitiful attempt to shield his thin frame from the cold.

“How long have you been sitting out here?” Yakov asks, the well of unease in the pit of his stomach growing to something like dread as Viktor hesitates to answer.

“... A... a couple hours, maybe.” He finally admits, his voice so hushed, Yakov almost doesn't hear him.

A couple hours.

That means he'd been out here since dark. 

He didn't have a key to the rink, of course, so he'd been stuck out here. Doing what? Waiting for someone to show up and let him in?

Yakov can't understand why. Had he forgotten something at the rink? He could have simply called Yakov and asked him to pick it up for him, in that case.

“How did you get here?” He asks.

“... I walked.” Viktor whispers, and Yakov barely suppresses the curse which jumps to the tip of his tongue. 

“You _walked_?!” He snaps, disbelief and horror warring with each other. “In the _dark_!?”

Vitya nods, not looking at him, looking almost ashamed.

It wasn't as if Vitya's home was close to the rink either. A good five miles. And at night, the streets weren't exactly safe. Why in the hell would he have... How had he even...? 

“... Do your parent's know you're here?” He asks, already dreading the answer.

Viktor shakes his head.

“... They know I left.” He says, voice still a whisper, trembling.

Yakov frowns, hating that he feels no surprise.

“And they let you leave?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

Vitya doesn't reply, but Yakov sees the suddenly devastated expression which flits over the boy's face, and a horrible realization takes hold Yakov's mind.

He shoves it away. Now wasn't the moment to be worrying over the implications of what Yakov was sure was going on. He needed to concentrate on helping Vitya first. He could worry about the rest of it after that.

“Come on.” He starts, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his set of keys. “Let's get inside. You need to warm up.”

He can see Vitya visibly relax at that.

He starts to reach for his pack and skates, but Yakov intercepts him, grabbing hold of the belongings himself.

He puts a hand on Vitya's shoulder as he unlocks the door, guiding him inside, and it's a relief as the heated hair hits them. More so for Viktor, Yakov knows, with the way the boy's entire frame seems to slump. 

Yakov says nothing as he continues to guide Viktor through the halls, Viktor saying nothing in return, letting himself be led without protest, until they reach the locker rooms.

Yakov leaves the boy standing by the entrance as he moves across the space to the row of lockers lining the back wall, opening the one which he knows contains stacks of fresh, unused competition uniforms.

He takes a moment searching through them, trying to find one which will fit Viktor, finally settling on one that's probably slightly too big, but will have to do for now.

“Here.” He says, going back to the boy. “I want you to go and take a hot shower, and change out of those clothes you've got on and into these ones.”

He holds the sets of clothes out to Vitya, and Vitya takes them wordlessly. He won't look at Yakov, his eyes fixed ahead at some indistinct spot.

“Where the long sleeved tee, once you're out of the shower. You need to warm up.”

Vitya nods, and Yakov watches as he does as he's told, heading back towards the showers.

He waits until he hears the sound of spraying water before he feels comfortable leaving to his office and picking up the papers he'd originally come for.

He takes the time alone to think.

Vitya didn't say it, but from the boy's reaction, and the bizarre circumstances of the whole thing, Yakov is guessing that Vitya's parent's had thrown him out of the house. For what reason, he can't begin to fathom. All he knows is, Viktor's parent's were absolutely capable of acting that cruelly toward their son, if past experience was anything to go by. The fact that they hadn't stopped him from leaving the house so early in the morning, when it was still dark out, told him all he needed to know on that front.

It was something he was going to have to try and find out, eventually, he supposed. The why of it all. 

Right now, he needed to concentrate on what he was going to do.

Vitya had no where else to go.

It was why he'd come to the rink, Yakov knows. It was probably the only place Vitya could think to come, even knowing he had no way of getting inside.

The thought of it makes Yakov's stomach twist, a sick feeling closing up his throat.

He couldn't send Vitya home. His parent's had forced him out of the house, onto dark, dangerous streets, in the freezing cold. A 13 year old child. Even if they would accept him back, which Yakov doubted they would for every conceivable reason, Yakov would be insane to let Viktor go back there by himself. 

The boy's parents were abusive. There was no other way to put it. They'd been neglecting Viktor for years. Hadn't taken Viktor to a single practice session since he'd been six years old, rarely paid a single ruble for his training or equipment. Never paid for plane tickets to competitions, and certainly never showed up themselves to support their son during those competitions.

They were only too happy, though, to take every ounce of prize money Viktor had won and seal it away in their own, personal bank accounts.

It makes Yakov sick to think of it all.

Vitya was an extraordinary boy. Gifted beyond description, he possessed a breathtakingly innate understanding of the technical aspects of his sport, a deep knowledge and instinct for what was right, impossibly beyond what a child of his age and experience should have. Already the boy had begun to create choreography for his own programs. Truly exceptional, extraordinary choreography. What sort of child could do such a thing? Yakov had wondered many times, and still could hardly fathom the ability he saw, growing daily in Vitya.

Beyond that, Vitya too was an incredibly kind and generous child. Never anything less than gracious, both in victory and defeat. He treated his fellow skaters with the utmost respect and regard, and was unfailingly polite to everyone. Encouraging, helpful, and curious. Yakov swore, Vitya spent as much time asking his fellow rink mates about their routines and training as he did focusing on his own, offering them advice and tips whenever he could. He showed such a genuine interest in other people. On top of all of it, the boy was highly intelligent, and deeply sensitive. 

Yakov knew it was that which, beyond his technical brilliance on the ice, had always given Viktor's skating such an otherworldly, extraordinarily emotional power. His ability to so accurately interpret whatever piece of music he was skating to, to find the absolute essence of what his program's themes were about, it was unlike anything Yakov had ever seen, in any skater. Child or adult. The boy was a genius. It wasn't a word he used freely, or lightly. Not a word he'd ever applied to any other of his skaters. But to Vitya, it was the only word to do the boy justice. A true genius. He was going to be the greatest figure skater of all time, Yakov was sure. Completely sure.

Where the boy had gotten those qualities, Yakov has no clue, because it certainly hadn't been from his horrible mother and father.

The unfairness of it all doesn't fail to make itself known to Yakov. That such a brilliant and wonderful child would be fated to such awful circumstances.

So Vitya had no where else to go. No other home. No other family. He knew that from talking to the boy. Any grandparents he might have had, had either never made any attempt at contact with him, or had died. 

Viktor was alone then.

There really was only one course of action at this point, Yakov thinks, as he closes the door to his office, locking it up before making his way back to the locker rooms.

The boy would have to live with him and Lilia. 

It was fine. Lilia would understand, and there was more than enough room for a third person in their house. 

If it came down to any sort of legal battle, well, Yakov had more than enough proof of abuse and neglect on the parent's part to win custody, he thinks. 

If he was being honest with himself, though, he doubted the mother and father would even fight for that. They'd never shown themselves to actually care about Viktor at all. The only thing they might do, he thinks, if it came down to it, was that they may try to stake a claim on Viktor's prize money. If they did that, well...

This was all something Yakov could worry about later. Right now, he just had to worry about talking to Vitya, explaining his plan and hopefully getting the boy to agree to it. Getting the boy situated after that.

By the time he gets back to the locker rooms, Vitya is done with his shower, and Yakov finds him sitting on one of the benches, wearing the soft sweat pants and long sleeved t-shirt that's a part of the team uniform, and just pulling on a pair of fresh socks, thank God. The clothes sit a little big on him, but they'll do for now. Until Yakov can get him something that really fits.

The boy looks up when Yakov clears his throat, eyes again wide, and Yakov doesn't like the half-startled reactions he's seeing from the boy. Doesn't like the way he's almost flinching away.

Vitya stands up, self-consciously tugging at the hem of his sleeves, and Yakov studies him carefully a moment.

The boy already looks better. He's no longer trembling, anyway. But his face is still drawn and tired, his eyes still open with pain.

“... How do you feel?” Yakov asks, coming nearer.

“B-better.” Viktor answers softly. “Not as cold...”

Yakov nods.

“Good.”

He sees Viktor glance quickly at him, and then away again. He continues pulling on his sleeves, nervous and unsure.

“... I'm sorry.” He says suddenly, still in that near whisper.

Yakov frowns.

“About what?” He asks, genuinely confused.

Viktor still isn't looking at him, almost like he's _ashamed_, and Yakov doesn't understand what the boy has to be ashamed about. Doesn't understand what he's apologizing for. If anyone's owed an apology, it's Vitya, from those bastards who had the gall to call themselves his parents.

“... F-for showing up... here.” Vitya says after a long moment, voice, if possible, even quieter. “I... I know I'm not supposed to. I know I'm just causing problems.”

“Vitya...”

“And... and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can go. I'll just... it was just that... I... I didn't know where else to go and... I didn't know where else to go...”

“Vitya, listen to me.” Yakov says firmly, stopping the boy, even as his stomach feels like it's twisting itself in knots. Viktor sounded almost on the verge of panic, talking quickly, almost incoherently, and Yakov felt himself starting to be afraid. “You don't have to go. It's alright. Yes? I understand.”

At last Viktor looks up at him, and his eyes are glassy.

“Y-you do?” He asks, and he sounds so much like a child, and Yakov can barely stand it.

He nods.

“Yes.” He answers. “You did the right thing, by coming here.”

He looks at Vitya squarely, pulling in a deep breath.

“You're parents forced you to leave?” He asks. Only it's more of a statement. Of course they did.

Any doubts to that being the case vanish as Vitya's expression twists in pain, and the glassiness of his eyes becomes tears.

He nods weakly, and the tears slip free, down his face.

“... Th-they... they found something out... a... about me...” he stutters out. “S-something they didn't... didn't like. I didn't mean... didn't mean for them to. I didn't mean it...”

Yakov is beginning to feel vaguely alarmed as Vitya's breathes suddenly become more shallow, his voice taking on a gasping quality.

“... I don't understand.” Yakov starts. “Found out what? What could they have possibly found out about you that would make them do this?”

The very notion was absurd. Vitya was a good boy. He never did anything wrong. The worst thing anyone could say about him was that he could sometimes be _forgetful_. Maybe a little too excitable sometimes. Hyper. That was all.

The change happens suddenly then, Yakov watching, alarm growing, as Vitya's breathing seems to become instantly erratic, his chest rising and falling too rapidly.

He's hyperventilating, Yakov realizes, horrified.

“S-something bad... something really bad...” Vitya gasps, and he's suddenly sobbing, his hands coming up, tugging painfully at the long strands of his hair. “Th-they hate me because of it...”

For a moment, Yakov doesn't know what to do, shocked at the abrupt emotional outburst, when before Viktor had been so subdued.

“Vitya, listen, calm down. Just breathe, yes?” He tries. “Whatever it is, I know it can't be so bad as all that.”

Vitya shakes his head, still pulling at his hair.

“It is!” He cries helplessly.

Yakov steps nearer, closing the rest of the distance between them, and he kneels down in front of the boy.

“Why not let me be the judge of that then? Tell me what it is.” He says, trying to make his gruff voice as soft as possible.

Viktor's breathing is still coming too shallow and rapid, and Yakov reaches out, taking gentle hold of the boy's thin wrists, tugging his hands carefully free of his hair.

“Vitya, please. I promise you, whatever it is, it isn't that bad. I know you. I know you're a good boy.”

“... I do-don't... don't want you to hate me too.” Vitya sobs, and Yakov feels his heart sink to the pit of his stomach, his own eyes burning.

He shakes his head.

“Never Vitya. I could never hate you.”

For long, horrible seconds, the boy says nothing, continuing to gasp for breaths, and Yakov pleads with him still.

“Please Vitya. It's alright.”

And finally, in a voice nearly soundless, hard to understand for how hard it shakes, he hears Vitya speak.

“... I th-think... I think I... I like boys.” 

Yakov looks at Vitya a moment, hard and level, and Vitya doesn't look back at him, his face turned to the ground, his entire body trembling. He's terrified. 

And there's no surprise in him, Yakov realizes, at what the boy's said.

He had suspected, long before now even. Long before, he's sure, Viktor had realized it himself.

It was Vitya's sensitivity, he supposes. Yakov had always thought the boy simply felt things too deeply. With the same intuitive nature a woman might have. And certainly, Viktor possessed a certain amount of femininity to him. Nothing incredibly obvious. He wasn't _effeminate_. It was more just that the boy was _delicate_. Again, the same kind of delicacy one would normally associate with the female sex. Those were all the more subtle tells, Yakov thinks. The sorts of things one would notice only after getting to know Vitya. 

On occasion, though, Viktor would behave in ways which made it obvious he was gay. Sometimes the way he carried himself. The way he would react to certain things. 

It was those more apparent qualities in his student which had, at times, made Yakov nervous for the boy.

This was Russia. 

People didn't like that sort of thing here. They didn't tolerate it, even.

He guesses, deep down, he'd been hoping it wasn't the case then, that Vitya was gay. For the boy's own sake. Even as he'd known, somewhere, that of course he was.

“Okay.” Yakov says, keeping his voice calm and steady. He hopes he sounds reassuring.

“I... I kissed the boy who lives across... across from us. I... I guess my father saw me and... and he was so angry at me...” Vitya blurts, like he hasn't heard Yakov, his voice rambling and confused, and Yakov thinks, even though he'd known Viktor was gay, even though it was alright, it didn't change how frightening this was for the boy. It didn't change how much it was going to cost him. How much it already had. “He was so angry, and I said... I tried telling him I was sorry. I said I was sorry so many times, and I begged him not to tell Mom, b-but he did, and then she was so angry too, and I didn't... d-didn't know what to do then. They both k-kept screaming at me. Th-they said... they said I was a... a d-disgrace to them, th-they said...”

Viktor is sobbing again, shaking terribly, and Yakov has never hated that man and woman more than he does in this very moment. He's never hated them so much.

“It's okay. Vitya. It's okay.”

“They... they hate me.” Vitya cries. “They hate me.”

And Yakov doesn't think of it anymore. He can't. 

Viktor was in so much pain, and Yakov could no longer stand it.

He reaches out, pulling the boy towards himself, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

“Vitya, no. _No_. You listen to me. Those things they said to you, that they told you, don't listen to a word of it. It's all lies. All of it. You hear me? There's nothing wrong with you boy. There's nothing you _did_ wrong. And whatever their approval is, it isn't worth a damn thing. You understand? Their love? Not worth the shit on the ground. So don't you wish for it. It's nothing good. Nothing you should want. They haven't earned the right to call you their son. And they have no right to make you feel these things about yourself. So whether they hate you or love you, it doesn't matter. What they think doesn't matter. What they feel doesn't matter. Do you know why Vitya? Because they're worthless people. The both of them. They're worthless, and they don't deserve your love.”

Viktor clings back to him, his face pressed hard against his shoulder as he weeps brokenly.

“... You d-don't hate me?” Yakov hears him whimper, and it's all he can do to keep himself from bursting into tears.

“No, you silly boy.” He pulls Vitya tighter against him, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of the boy's head. “Never. _Never_.”

_He'd held onto to Vitya for what must have been a solid ten minutes, the boy crying weakly against him, his petite frame seeming boneless, almost frail, reminding Yakov bitterly of how young Vitya was. How horribly unjust, then, that he was being made to go through this._

_Eventually, Vitya had begun to calm, and Yakov had taken the opportunity to look the boy over more carefully, making sure he was otherwise alright, before asking him what belongings he had with him, other than his skates._

_Vitya had looked at him with fear in his eyes as he'd explained he'd only had time to grab a few things. He'd handed Yakov his backpack then, and Yakov had looked through it, finding the boy's meager belongings to contain a few, used paperback books, a couple of worn out looking t-shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans, as equally worn as the ones the boy had been wearing when Yakov had found him sitting outside. _

_There were no real essentials, Yakov had realized, and it had made it painfully clear Vitya had been forced to leave the house in a hurry._

_Yakov had needed to push his anger down again, instead focusing on trying to remember to go shopping, to pick Viktor up some things he would need, a toothbrush, socks and underwear. Whatever else a boy his age would need or want. He would talk to Lilia later._

_He'd handed Viktor his bag back then, and proceeded to tell the boy his intention to bring him home with him, to live there with him and his wife._

_Yakov doesn't think he'll ever forget the look on Vitya's face then. The way he'd looked up at Yakov with this terrible mixture of disbelieving hope. Like he wanted so badly to believe it was true, but was too afraid to let himself believe anything good could happen anymore._

“Y-you want me to live with you?” _He'd asked_.

“Of course.” _Yakov had answered_.

“... F-for how long?”

_Yakov had looked at the boy with his own confusion then._

“How long? Vitya, permanently, of course. You'd be living with us permanently.” _He'd answered._

_Vitya had looked up at him for a long moment then, and his eyes had filled with tears as he'd thrown himself at Yakov, wrapping his thin arms around him, clinging to him desperately as he again began to weep. And Yakov had realized that Vitya hadn't thought before that moment that he would have anywhere to go. That he would be without a home entirely. And he'd held the boy back then, letting him cry for as long as he needed, struggling against his own, overwhelming emotions. His anger, and his pain, and the suffocating sadness at having to watch this child, this brilliant, wonderful child, suffer like this._

_He looks at Vitya now, standing there, gripping his bag. He looks so painfully young, Yakov thinks. The impression made worse by Yakov's thick coat, which he'd forced the boy to wear. The thing was several sizes too large, hanging off Vitya's frame in an almost comical fashion. But it was better protection against the cold than the flimsy windbreaker of the team uniform, and Yakov needed to keep the boy from catching cold out there, if he hadn't already._

_He has a thought then, and he hopes maybe it will do a little to cheer the boy. Yakov had never been particularly good at handling children, tending rather to frighten them than sooth. But it would be hard to go wrong with this, he thinks. _

_“Would you like to stop some place for a hot chocolate? On the way home?”_

_Viktor smiles at him, if only a little. The first smile he's seen from the boy today. And as he nods, Yakov smiles back._

_He was going to make this right, he thinks. Somehow. For Vitya. He would make this right._

//

He would make this right, Yakov thinks.

That was what he had promised himself, then. What, silently, he had promised Viktor.

Looking at Viktor now, lying in the wretchedly familiar hospital bed, propped up like some sort of mannequin by too many pillows, Yakov is reminded only of his bitter failure to keep that promise.

He remembers that day clear as any day in his life. Remembers how Vitya had stood by the front door of his and Lilia house, silent and still as Yakov had talked to his wife in the kitchen, telling her everything that had happened. What Vitya's parents had done to him. Telling her that he wanted Vitya to stay with them, half fearing she might tell him no. And then what was he going to do? 

He remembers watching as Lilia's always impassive, even hardened face had suddenly softened, lines of pained emotion standing out stark in her features. He remembers her hand coming to her mouth, and her voice, agonized, as she'd said, “Oh, the child.”

He remembers her moving past him, walking to Vitya and pulling the boy against her in a crushing embrace. Remembers Vitya hugging her back, his thin hands curling into the fabric of her blouse, clinging so desperately his knuckles had drained to white.

He remembers how, for the first several months of his living with them, the boy had barely spoken a word. How he'd almost fanatically performed every task asked of him without question, without complaint, as though he'd been terrified that he and Lilia would somehow change their minds if he said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, and throw him out to the street too, like his mother and father had.

Yakov remembers once, in those first few weeks, late at night, he'd gotten up to use the bathroom, walking past the room they'd given to the boy, and through the closed door, he'd heard Vitya crying, the sound muffled and broken, as though Vitya had had his hands pressed to his mouth, or his face buried against a pillow, and Yakov had stood there for a moment, listening, heart falling, and not knowing what to do.

He hadn't gone in, he remembers. He hadn't wanted to embarrass the boy. That was the excuse he'd given himself. And so, after a few minutes, he'd moved away, and let Vitya alone.

He wishes, to this day, that he'd chosen differently.

The doctor is here now, bent down at Vitya's side, testing the vision in his right eye.

They'd at last removed the bandages from the surgery on his orbital bone. Yakov had had to look away when they'd pulled the last of the gauze free, and he'd seen the plain scarring marring Vitya's once smooth skin. A nasty snarl of raised, red lines, all twisted together around the socket of the eye, running up along Viktor's temple and disappearing beneath his hairline. 

Worse, though, had been the washed out hue of the iris. The once vivid blue faded to a dull gray, bleeding into the pupil. And Yakov had known, before any testing needed to be done, that Viktor was blind in that eye.

God... _God_...

The grim expression lining the doctor's face only confirms it, as he waves the pen light back and forth in Viktor's eyes.

There's no pupil dilation. Yakov can see that. No response to the light.

The doctor pockets the instrument after a few more passes, and holds up his index finger.

“Follow my finger.” He instructs Vitya, beginning to move the digit, first left, then right. Up and down.

Vitya's left eye is working normally, following the movement without difficulty it seems. 

His right eye floats directionless. Unseeing.

Beside him, Yakov can sense the tension in both Yuuri and Yura. They know too, he thinks.

They'd already tested the hearing in Vitya's right ear. 

He'd suffered a nearly 50 percent hearing loss, the doctor had said. Yakov had watched as Vitya's hand had tightened over Yuuri's at the news, even as his face had remained stoic.

“Is there any way to get it back?” Yuuri had asked, not bothering to disguise the panic in his voice. 

The doctor had told them “possibly”, whatever the hell that meant. That some percentage of the hearing in Vitya's right hear might be regained, but no guarantees could be made. And he'd gone on then to explain how there were “a number of hearing aid options out there, which would be of significant help”, and Yakov had tuned out after that.

A hearing aid, for a 29 year old young man, in the absolute prime of his life. In the prime of his athletic career...

There wouldn't be any sort of help for Vitya's eye. No way to fix it. No way to lessen the blindness. 

It was too much.

Too damn much.

“The good news is the reconstructive surgery went well. The healing around the orbital bone seems to have progressed smoothly, so there won't be any kind of permanent disfigurement. Obviously, the scarring looks worse now than it will in a few months. I expect it to fade significantly with time.”

The doctor pauses, gathering the right words, Yakov thinks, for the blow that's coming. 

“... Unfortunately, the damage to the retina and optical nerves was severe enough that there appears to be a permanent loss of vision in the right eye. Now this is just an initial assessment, and of course we'll do further testing a little down the road, but... I want to be clear that, with the loss of hearing and vision, both being on the same side, it's likely going to have a significant impact on Viktor's recovery, in terms of things like depth perception and balance and so on. Learning to walk again while lacking those senses, or a significant portion of those senses, is going to be difficult. Not impossible, of course. But it's going to take a lot of work.”

Viktor smiles. He smiles at all of them. At Yakov, and Yuuri, and Yura. He smiles at the doctor. 

“It's okay!” He says, bright and hopeful. “We all know hard work here, I think? Yes?!”

Yakov wants to tell him to stop it. To tell him he doesn't have to do this. He doesn't have to act _strong_ for their sakes.

But this is what Vitya does. This is who he is. 

He always wanted to make sure everyone else was alright, even when he was anything but.

Yuuri smiles at Vitya, reaching out, cupping his face in his palm.

“Yeah,” he answers softly. “we do.”

Viktor beams at him, and Yakov looks away.

The doctor goes over some more things. More testing to be done, more careful warnings about the difficulty of the road ahead, as if they all didn't understand already. Yakov hardly listens.

He needs to be alone with Viktor. He wants to ask Viktor how he's really doing. He knows it isn't okay, like Viktor said. He thinks Yuuri and Yura probably know that too.

But he also knows that, with those two, there was too much... admiration, maybe. They looked up to Vitya, the both of them. It was unintentional, Yakov knows, but the weight of that admiration put pressure on Vitya. 

This is how the boys was.

He would want to show his gratitude for all their support by showing them how it worked. By being strong for them. 

But there were still some things, Yakov knows, that Vitya could tell him, that he couldn't tell anyone else. That he could show to Yakov that he couldn't show anyone else. 

There was no need for Vitya to live up to some idealized version of himself for Yakov, because Yakov had been there before there ever existed “Viktor Nikiforov, Living Legend of Russian Ice Skating”. 

And so, when the doctor is finally finished, and leaves them, Yakov asks gently for both Yura and Yuuri to leave too, so that he can be alone with Vitya for a while. 

Neither young man protests, or questions Yakov's request, and Yakov is grateful for that.

He waits until the door clicks softly closed behind them before turning back to Viktor.

He finds the boy looking back at him, still smiling. Only the expression is tight, and Vitya's eyes shine with pain.

He knows why Yakov's sent the other two away.

“What do you feel?” Yakov asks. There wasn't any point in hiding his intention.

A wobbling half laugh escapes Viktor's throat, and he looks away.

“Scared.” He admits bluntly, and Yakov nods.

“It will be alright though.” Viktor goes on after a moment.

Again Yakov nods.

“Yes.” He says.

The air between them falls silent then, and Yakov watches as Vitya fidgets with the material of his bed's sheets. He wants to say something, and Yakov will give him the time he needs to do it.

“... Yuuri and Yura think I can come back, or... they did before.” He finally starts, his voice soft, shaking a little. “... I thought, for a little while, maybe I could too, but... but now...”

He looks up at Yakov again, that same, hurt smile on his face.

“Probably not, huh?” He asks, and Yakov feels his throat tighten, his mouth pulling down at the corners.

Vitya is asking him because he knows he'll be honest, Yakov thinks, and not for the first time does he think being a coach an unenviable job. 

“... Probably not.” Yakov answers, and the smile on Viktor's face stays, grows tighter, and he looks away again, nodding.

“... I was doing pretty good this season though, huh?” Viktor says.

“The best you've ever been Vitya.” Yakov answers without reservation, because it was the truth.

Viktor had been miraculous this season. He'd been beautiful.

“... Man, I... I really wanted that fourth Olympic title.” Vitya laughs weakly, still looking away. 

“You would have had it.” Yakov says, again, without reservation. Again because it was the truth. Viktor had been too good this season. Too great. Nobody would have beaten him. Nobody could have.

“... Oh well!” Viktor says, too much enthusiasm in his voice. “Someone else will take the title! Someone deserving!”

“Yes.” Yakov says, and he smirks at Vitya. “But whoever it is, they'll always have it in their mind... they'll always know, it should have been yours.”

Viktor looks up at him, eyes wide.

“Oh, Yakov, that's terrible! Don't say that!”

Yakov can feel his smile widen.

“It may be terrible Vitya, but it's true. And you know it.”

“... Maybe.” Viktor says softly, and Yakov knows it isn't false modesty. Viktor had never underestimated his opponents. He'd never been arrogant, despite his dominance. 

“... I wish Yuuri and Yura hadn't dropped out of the season. With the Olympics...” He says suddenly, his voice subdued.

“It was their choice.” Yakov tells him. “It's what they wanted.”

“I know. I just...”

Vitya's voice trails off, and Yakov watches him. He wishes he could hug the boy.

“... If I can't skate again... what will I do?” Viktor looks up at Yakov again, and his eyes are over bright, tears standing out clearly in them. He's asking seriously. He wants Yakov to tell him, and Yakov thinks how young Vitya still is.

“... You're more than just a figure skater Vitya.” 

“... I am?” Viktor asks, his voice trembling, and the tears slip free, down his cheeks. He asks like he really doesn't know, and Yakov feels his own eyes burn.

“Yes Vitya, you _ridiculous boy_. Don't you understand how admired you are off the ice? By so many people, how loved you are?”

Only the look on Viktor's face tells Yakov no. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know. 

Because it was just who Viktor was, that left people so in love with him. Not any way he tried to be. Not any sort of affectation. Just who he was. How he was. Generous, and caring, and, at times, almost frighteningly intuitive about other people and what was going on with them.

His effect on people had never been something calculated. He made you feel noticed because he _did_ notice you. He'd always noticed everybody. That was just how Vitya was.

Yakov shakes his head. He can't bear to see the doubt on Vitya's face anymore. And so he steps nearer, reaching out and taking hold of the boy's hands. He squeezes them gently.

“Vitya, listen to me. You remember days when nothing seemed to be right, yes? When you couldn't seem to get your jumps right, or your step sequences were coming out all wrong, or the attention of the media was too big, or they would say something ugly about you? Remember what I would tell you on those days? Remember what I would say?”

Viktor looks up at him with desperate eyes. He looks so much like he did that day, when he'd been a 13 year old child, and he'd been so alone.

“I would tell you Vitya, one day at a time. Yes? Don't think about whether you'll skate again or not. What you'll do if you can't. Think about today. And then, when it comes, tomorrow. One day at a time, yes?”

Viktor nods, looking up at him still.

“... Yes.” 

Yakov smiles at him.

“That's my boy.” He reaches up, placing a gentle hand atop Viktor's head. “That's my brave boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again to all my readers! I can't tell you how much your support means to me, and I hope you continue to enjoy!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more of Viktor's past is revealed, and Yakov has grown accustomed to helping Viktor when he'd down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include parental abuse, emotional, verbal and mental, homophobic language, unwanted sexual advancements, and issues of self-esteem and depression. Long chapter is long! Thank you guys for all your support, as always, and if you have a chance, please leave me your thoughts!

_Viktor thinks he should know better. _

_How many times had father told him he wasn't allowed in the study? More times than can be remembered, that's certain. _

_He isn't allowed. He isn't allowed a lot of things. But he isn't allowed in the study most especially. It's where father works. And father hates when his work is disturbed. _

_But mother's in there too now, and Viktor just has to show somebody. He has to._

_He peeks in through the crack left open between the two sliding doors, and sees mother and father, father at his big, oak desk, bent over a bunch of papers, writing, with mother sitting in one of the big, worn chairs in the corner._

_She's talking to father. They're discussing money again, it sounds like._

_Viktor knows they don't have a lot. But he doesn't think they're poor either. He guesses they're what's called middle class. That's what the other children at school call it._

_Viktor really does think he should know better. Mother sounds unhappy, her voice taking on that sharp, short tone it always does when her and father are fighting. They fight all the time, it seems like. But... but maybe, when they see what he can do, it will make them happy, he thinks. Maybe they'll be proud of him..._

_He should know better, but he doesn't, and he pushes one of the sliding doors open and steps into the study._

_He stands there for what must be almost a minute, and neither mother or father seem to even know he's there. Neither of them look at him, or tell him to get out._

_It gives Viktor courage, and he steps farther in, a smile tugging at his lips as he thinks of how proud they'll be, mother and father, when they see what he can do!_

_“Viktor, what are you doing in here?!” Mother finally notices him._

_Viktor doesn't notice the sharp tone of her voice now. He's too excited. He knows they'll be proud. He knows it._

_“I can do a double axle!” He announces without preamble. Yakov assures him that it's extremely impressive, for a seven year old boy to be able to do such a jump, and so well. _

_“Get him out of here.” Father mutters, but Viktor doesn't really hear him, because he has to show them, he has to show somebody, and they'll be so proud, when they see._

_“Look!” He demands, and he pulls his body into the correct form, before leaping into the air, spinning tight, two times, and landing softly on his toes, his other leg stretching straight and arching with the momentum of the rotations, his arms out at his sides, fingers stretched and pointed. Good form, he knows. Lilia tells him he has the best form she's ever seen on any ice skater his age. As good as any ballet dancer within his age range too, even older. _

_Viktor's lips are pulled in a wide grin as he comes back around, facing mother and father, and they'll be so proud of him. He knows it. His heart beats and swells with anticipation for the happiness he'll see on their faces._

_“How was that!?” He asks, voice raised with his own excitement._

_Only, he feels it die in his throat as he sees the look in mother's and father's eyes._

_They're looking at him. Both their faces are lined in severe anger, their eyes shining with it, and Viktor's excitement shrivels, replaced a sudden with sickening fear, his stomach knotting tight and horrible._

_He blinks up at them, and then father is standing._

_His hands come slamming down on top of his desk, the loud bang making Viktor flinch violently back, and he knows better now. He knows better then to come into the study when he isn't allowed._

_He tries to apologize, but his voice is trapped in his throat. Tries to leave, but he's frozen, and his legs won't work suddenly. Nothing will._

_“Get OUT!” His father screams, his voice deafeningly loud, and tears spring to Viktor's eyes. He can't move. He can't. He tries, but he can't._

_And then mother is up, and she's coming at him, and she grabs his wrist hard enough to hurt, and drags him out of the room._

_And she drags and drags him, down the hall, through the living room and into the kitchen, and Viktor is too frightened to do anything, struggling to keep from falling because she's walking too fast and he can't keep up._

_She stops, her hand around his wrist grasping harder, and Viktor whimpers at the pain._

_And then mother is crouching down in front of him, her hands grabbing his arms, squeezing tight like on his wrist, and she's shaking him. Shaking him and shaking him and screaming in his face._

_“You idiot child! How many times?! How many times does your father have to tell you to stay out of the study!? You must be the stupidest boy in the world! Are you trying to ruin everything?! Are you deliberately trying to ruin our lives!?”_

_Viktor can't answer. She's shaking him so hard he can't even see, his head snapping back painfully with the motion. He's crying. Desperate, broken sobs which jumble and tremble out of his throat, and he wants to tell her no, no, he isn't trying to ruin anything. He doesn't want to ruin anything. He loves mother and father. He loves them so much, and he just wanted them to love him too. That's all. That's all he wanted._

_Mother stops shaking him, but the world is still spinning in fast circles, and Viktor's knees give out, collapsing him to the floor._

_Mother says something else. He can't understand her. But he can tell her voice is still so angry._

_He keeps crying, and tries telling her no, no, he doesn't want to ruin anything, he doesn't mean to._

_He doesn't realize until the world stops spinning that mother's not even there anymore._

_She left, went back to father._

_It takes a long time for Viktor to stop sniveling. Takes even longer for him to pick himself up off the floor and go to his room._

_He doesn't see mother or father for the rest of the day. Goes to bed when the sun goes down and doesn't know if anyone else is even home._

_//_

_“So this is what you are then.”_

_There's a tone in his father's voice like he's always known, and unfiltered, naked disdain. His eyes shine with disgust as they fix on him, glowing with rage, lips curled like he feels sick revulsion, just to look at his son._

_Viktor has never known more that his father hates him. _

_He feels afraid. He thinks father may hurt him this time. Really hurt him._

_He shakes in the man's hold, powerful fingers closing painfully over his wrist, threatening to bruise, and Viktor doesn't dare to try and pull away._

_“A fucking queer.”_

_Viktor tries to blubber out an apology. Something. Anything to make father let him go. To make him stop looking at him like he is. _

_Whatever words he'd been trying to get out die in his throat as father jerks him forward, dragging him up the walkway, towards the front door of their house._

_The boy, Alexei, had run off the moment father had appeared. _

_When he'd kissed Viktor, there'd been a feeling of warmth in the pit of his stomach. Fluttering butterflies, and Viktor had felt giddy with happiness._

_He'd liked Alexei for a long time now. Had wanted so much to talk to him. Alexei was a little older. Maybe a year and a half. He'd moved into the building across the street about six months ago, and Viktor had been taken with him ever since. He'd thought Alexei was so handsome. Tall, with gorgeous blonde hair and green eyes, and mature, masculine features. Viktor had been fascinated with the boy's facial hair. Viktor's own face was as smooth now as when he'd been a very little boy. He couldn't grow anything close to a beard or mustache. Not that he really wanted to. He'd sit at his bedroom window sometimes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alexei out on the street, practically pressing himself against the pane of glass when he would._

_He can't recall the number of times he'd tried working up the courage to go over and introduce himself. He'd never managed to though._

_And so he'd nearly fainted with shock when, just a short while ago, today, he'd been sitting out on the front stoop of his home, reading a book, enjoying the unusually warm early March weather, when he'd heard someone say hello, and he'd looked up to find Alexei standing there, smiling at him._

_Viktor had gaped, too stunned to speak, voice lodging suddenly in his throat, words and thoughts scattering uselessly anyway._

_“You're Viktor Nikiforov, right?” Alexei asked next, and Viktor's brain had finally decided to start working properly again._

_He'd nodded weakly, his voice still trapped inside him. _

_Alexei's smile somehow had grown broader, even as Viktor was sure he must have looked like a complete idiot._

_He'd felt overwhelmed and confused, not understanding how it was this beautiful boy who'd he'd never even spoken a word to knew who he was._

_“I saw you compete at Junior Worlds, on TV. You were amazing!” Alexei had told him as if reading his thoughts._

_“... Y-you did?” Viktor had managed, and then there'd been a feeling of something warm in his chest, something like giddy disbelief, that the boy who he'd nearly convinced himself he loved had seen him compete on television. Had seen him take home a silver medal then. That he'd just told Viktor that he thought he was amazing._

_Alexei had nodded, still grinning at him._

_“Sure! You're a beautiful skater! I'm Alexei, by the way.”_

_Alexei had held out his hand, and Viktor hardly remembers lifting his own to shake it._

_The afternoon had bled into early evening over the course of the next few hours, Alexei having joined him on the stoop of his house. They'd talked and talked, and Viktor's heart had soared. Had felt like it was swelling, and beating hard enough to break right out of his chest. _

_He'd thought it would just about explode when, just as the sun was beginning to go down past the horizon, Alexei had reached out, had taken hold of Viktor's hand, squeezing it gently. He'd leaned in closer, his breath hot against Viktor's face. And then his lips had been on Viktor's, and Viktor had sat frozen for a moment, shocked and mind blank, because Alexei was kissing him. He was kissing him! And no one had ever done that before. Not like this. Not on the mouth._

_It had taken too long for Viktor to realize what was happening, and Alexei had pulled away, his face, for the first time, uncertain, looking back at Viktor almost fearfully._

_“... I'm sorry, was that...?” He had started._

_Viktor had felt his eyes go wide, and he'd started shaking his head._

_“No! No, I... I liked it.” He had said, and had hated the way his voice had shaken. How small it was._

_The kids at school called him names. Viktor wasn't stupid, or naive. He knew what the names meant._

_Faggot. Queer. Homo. _

_He hated most of all that they weren't wrong. He was all of those things they called him. He'd known it for a while, now. Had tried, for a long time, to make it different. Tried convincing himself he liked girls instead..._

_He'd sat in his room and cried into his pillow when he'd finally admitted to himself he couldn't change. That he felt nothing when he looked at girls like he did when he looked at boys..._

_He'd stared at himself in the mirror the next morning, and said to his blotchy reflection..._

_“You're gay.”_

_It had felt like the end of the world. _

_It still does._

_And he wonders now if the feeling will ever go away. If any of this will ever be okay._

_He doesn't think so._

_He's so scared all the time._

_He'd kissed Alexei back, because he was weak, and it had felt good. So good. _

_And then father had come home from work, and had seen them, and he'd taken hold of Viktor's wrist and yanked him up into the air, screaming at Alexei to leave._

_Viktor had been too terrified and confused by the sudden disruption to even notice if Alexei had said anything, or what his face had been like. All he knows is that Alexei had left, and father is dragging him into the house, and he's stumbling over his words, saying he's sorry over and over and his father doesn't answer him at all._

_Pulling him past the front door, his father jerks him up, putting a hand between his shoulder blades and shoving him forward, hard enough that Viktor nearly falls._

_“Nadia!” Father calls out, grasping hold of Viktor again, and Viktor feels panic crush down on his heart._

_“No!” Viktor cries, realizing what's happening. “Please father, d-don't! Don't tell her, please!” _

_“Shut up!” Father snaps at him, voice filled with disgust, and Viktor's voice dies in his throat. He goes limp in father's hold._

_“What?” Mother emerges from the kitchen, standing in the threshold of the entryway. Her eyes are cold and tired as they move over father first, before dropping to Viktor, still held in his grip. “What did he do now?” She asks, sounding almost bored._

_Again father shoves Viktor forward._

_“You tell her.” He says._

_Viktor stands there between them, and he doesn't know what to do. He feels sick, heart pounding and head dizzy with fear._

_He doesn't say anything, and he hears mother sigh in annoyance._

_“Just tell me Vasyl.” She says, voice flat and uninterested. “I don't want to waste any more time waiting for him to stammer it out.”_

_Viktor feels his arm taken hold of again, yanking him back, and he's barely able to swallow down his own, pained gasp._

_“Tell her, you disgusting little pervert!” Father hisses against his ear._

_Viktor bursts into sobs and he can't even help it, fear loosening his tears and gasping breaths, body trembling._

_He hears his father scoff, the sound full with repulsion._

_“Your son is a damned queer!” He spits._

_Viktor watches the color drain right out of mother's face, her eyes widening in shock as they fall on him._

_Shame chokes his throat. He begins to cry harder._

_“What are you talking about?” She asks, eyes still fixed on Viktor, and he can't look back at her anymore. He sees the horror in her eyes, like she's looking at a monster._

_“I found the little bastard sitting out front, kissing another boy on the mouth!” Father tells her, voice nearly breaking with his rage. “I fucking told you about him, didn't I?! I knew there was something wrong with him! With his fucking hair like a girls, and all this prissy ice dancing shit!”_

_For long moments, mother doesn't say anything, and Viktor can still feel her gaze on him, the weight of it making him feel small and exposed and he wishes he could just disappear then. Wishes, in that moment, that he didn't exist at all._

_“... Is that true Viktor?” She finally speaks, and her voice is frighteningly calm._

_He begins bumbling apologies again, trying to explain that he didn't mean to kiss Alexei, he didn't. It just happened, and he didn't think about it when it did and he was sorry. He was so, so sorry._

_He keeps going, keeps stumbling and begging and his parents don't say anything at all, his mother watching him with impassive, dead eyes, father behind him, silent as a tomb._

_Until Viktor collapses to his knees, energy drained with the overwhelming fear and desperate excuses._

_The silence of the room is deafening in his ears, and he lifts his hands, tangling them in his hair._

_“... You have until morning to get out.” Father says behind him. “You need to be gone by five. If you're still here by then, I won't be held responsible for what happens.”_

_More desperate begging from him. He didn't think he had any more tears, but they fill his eyes, blinding him and he begs and begs and says he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry._

_“You're a disgrace.” Mother says, voice as dead as her eyes. She hates him too, Viktor thinks. Like father. He's never known so well that they both hate him now. “We won't have a perversion living under this roof. We'd made that clear, I thought. And yet here we are Viktor. It's unnatural. A sin against God. And we can't have someone like you here. We can't be seen with someone like you.”_

_Viktor doesn't move. Doesn't say a word._

_What is there to say? They hate him. Mother and father, they hate him. Maybe they always have. He guesses, probably, they always have._

_It hurts inside his chest. A pressure like suffocating, blood rushing, cracking in his ears, and he doesn't even know what to call this. What he's feeling. Horrible. It's horrible. Thinks, it would be easier to die, than to feel whatever this is._

_“I'm sorry...” he says again, voice small and weak and he doesn't even know if they hear it._

_“You have until five.” Father says. “You're disgusting Viktor. You should know that.”_

_“... I'm your son.” Viktor whispers._

_“You're no son of mine.” Father spits, vicious. “I'm ashamed I ever called you that.”_

_//_

_“I know it's cluttered.” Yakov says. “We'll get it sorted out tomorrow, so you can have more space.”_

_Viktor's eyes move over the small space, filled with boxes, stacks of books and too much furniture. There's a bed pressed into the corner, already fixed with sheets and a blanket, and Viktor's never felt more grateful. _

_He'd thought... he'd thought today, this morning, when he'd been thrown out by mother and father, he'd thought there was no where for him to go. _

_The rink had been the first place to cross his mind, and so he'd walked the five miles to it, not knowing what to do. He didn't have a key, and in the back of his mind, he'd known there was no way for him to get in. Yakov and the rest of the staff would be gone for the day. Wouldn't be back until the weekend was over._

_The fear which had been sitting in the pit of his stomach had begun to grow worse as the freezing cold of early March had begun to seep into his bones, and he'd realized he had no shelter from it. He'd thought, for a moment, he could call Yakov. Tell him where he was. What had happened, or... tell him something. Tell him he was in trouble. But then he'd remembered he didn't have a cell phone. Mother and father had never allowed him to get one. He didn't have any money either. He'd been forced to leave so quickly, he'd hadn't thought to bring any. So he couldn't even use a pay phone._

_Halfway to the rink, and he'd begun to cry, the fear rising into a kind of awful panic which made it feel like he couldn't breathe. He'd thought, really thought for a while, that he might die, out in the blistering Russian cold._

_When Yakov had shown up outside the rink, Viktor had nearly burst into sobs at the sight of him, he'd been so relieved._

_Viktor doesn't know what he would do without Yakov. He doesn't know. He doesn't know._

_“Thank you.” He says now, because he doesn't know what else to say. It isn't enough, he thinks. He's never been able to give Yakov enough back for the kindness he's shown._

_He feels Yakov's hand land on his shoulder, and he doesn't think, just turns and throws his arms around his coach's waist, hugging him desperately. _

_He feels Yakov stiffen, like he always does when Viktor hugs him. But he doesn't push Viktor away. He never does. And after a moment, he feels Yakov's arms come around him, holding him back._

_“It's alright.” Yakov says above him, and Viktor presses his face against Yakov's chest, and he can't say anything more._

_//_

_Viktor has recently turned fifteen years old. Has even more recently won the World Junior Championships, and has decided to celebrate both by going to a dance club and getting plastered on Vodka. _

_He hadn't really planned on hooking up with anyone. Hadn't planned on what he's doing now, making out with someone in the back alley of that club, both of them drunk and kissing each other desperately._

_The guy he's with is older. Said he was 28 or 29. Viktor can't remember exactly. Viktor had lied and said he was 18, though he doesn't think the guy believes him. He doesn't look 18. He doesn't even look 15, really. Most people who meet him think he's more like 13. _

_Viktor's made out with other boys before. Not many. But a few. He's never been drunk like this. Not even close._

_The guy, Viktor's trying to remember his name, has him pressed up against the brick wall of the building, one hand tangled in his long hair, tugging at his scalp, his other gripping Viktor's hip._

_Viktor can feel him kneading at the skin there, nails digging into flesh._

_Viktor doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he loops his arms around the guys neck. _

_The few times he's made out haven't really been like this either._

_He's kissed some boys. Other skaters in his division, mostly. One boy he'd met at a record shop. _

_He's never done more than that. Just kissing. _

_He's never had a guy stick his tongue in his mouth, like this guy's doing to him now._

_He guesses he likes it. His heart is beating hard in his chest, and he feels a little scared, but he likes the way it feels, and he lets the guy push him more flush against the wall, the weight of his hips pinning him back._

_“God, you're fucking beautiful...” the guys breathes against his mouth. The stench of liquor fills his nostrils. He doesn't give Viktor a chance to say anything back, shoving his tongue past his teeth again. His hand at Viktor's hip grips hard, the hand in his hair pulling almost painfully now._

_He pushes forward, hips grinding over Viktor's front, and something unpleasant churns in Viktor's stomach. _

_He thinks, for a moment, through his fog addled brain, that he doesn't want to be here._

_But he doesn't do anything. He's fifteen now. He should have more experience, he thinks._

_He hears some of the other skaters at the rink talking sometimes. Most of them have boyfriends and girlfriends already. Most of them have already had sex. _

_The guy's hand in his hair is starting to really hurt now though, and Viktor's starting to feel a little dizzy. He doesn't like how pressed up against the wall he is, the feeling suffocating and trapped._

_Another hard squeeze over his hip, and he feels the guy's hand move away, thick fingers suddenly at the waistband of his pants, fumbling with and slipping past the elastic, dipping down._

_Viktor stiffens, the unpleasant turn in his stomach abruptly worsening to something closer to panic._

_He unhooks his arms, lifting a hand and pressing it against the guy's chest._

_He's bigger than Viktor. Taller, heavier, and he doesn't move back at all._

_The hand in his hair lets go, moving to Viktor's neck, gripping the nape with too much pressure, and Viktor feels the fingers at his waistband work all the way past, inside his pants, and suddenly the guy's got his hand in his crotch, cupping and grabbing at him roughly, and the feeling in his stomach explodes into naked fear._

_No... he doesn't want this._

_The thought breaks through the fog in his mind._

_He has both hands on the guys chest now, pushing at him and trying to turn his face away from the increasingly aggressive kisses._

_“No...” he manages to get out._

_“Oh, come on baby,” the guy says. He laughs, his breath hot and stinking against Viktor's face, his hand in his crotch groping more persistently. “let's fuck.”_

_“No, I said no...” Viktor tries again, fear ratcheting up as the realization of his situation dawns on him. “Get off, please...”_

_The man laughs again._

_“You're so fucking hot. How's a guy get as beautiful as you anyway? Like a woman.”_

_He crowds in against Viktor, trying to pin him harder against the wall, and Viktor's panic erupts into blinding terror._

_“I said NO!” He cries, and shoves with all of his strength against the man's chest._

_The man stumbles back, hitting the wall behind him, his face shocked._

_Viktor stands frozen a moment, surprised at his own strength, looking back at the man, watching as the initial shock twists into anger._

_“Hey, what the fuck's your problem?!” He snaps. “I thought you wanted it!”_

_Viktor can only shake his head. He can already feel the tears threatening behind his eyes. The familiar, horrible burning._

_The man's mouth screws up in unhidden hatred._

_“Fuckin' stupid bitch.” He mutters. “You pretty boys are all the damn same. Think you're better than everyone. Think you can just fuck with people and get away with it.”_

_Viktor shakes his head again._

_“... I wasn't... I'm sorry, I just... I didn't want...” he stammers, not even sure what he's trying to say._

_“Fuck off.” The man cuts him off, and suddenly he's leaving, stalking away with quick strides, leaving Viktor alone in the alleyway._

_Viktor watches him go, the adrenaline in his blood quickly fading, and suddenly he feels sick, his head spinning and light._

_He tries turning, and his knees give out under him, dropping him to the pavement. The surge of bile happens too quickly up his throat to stop, and he throws up all over the ground, with it an ugly, wretched sob._

_He's drunk, the world spinning in circles around him. He needs to get back to the hotel, he thinks vaguely, but he's not even sure he can walk straight._

_His phone, he remembers then. _

_Yakov had given him a phone, not that long ago. Had told him to use it for emergencies._

_This seemed like an emergency. He thinks. He thinks maybe it's one._

_He falls back against the wall behind him, hands trembling as he reaches into his pants pocket, relief flooding him when he feels the hard casing of the cell._

_It takes several attempts to fish it out, the pockets too tight. And then he has to try and remember Yakov's number. His thoughts are all jumbled together. _

_When he does, his fingers don't seem to want to work right, shaking over the phone's buttons, pressing the wrong ones again and again, forcing him to have to keep starting over. The little screen is blurry and hard to read._

_Finally he manages it, bringing the cell to his ear._

_“... Vitya?” Yakov's gruff voice comes over the line, and Viktor starts sobbing again. He can't help it._

_“Vitya! What's wrong?! What's happening?!” Yakov starts, alarm clear in his voice. _

_“... I need help.” Viktor barely manages to blubber out, he's crying so hard. _

_“Alright.” Yakov says, voice steady and calm. “Vitya, tell me where you are.”_

_Viktor struggles to remember the address, instead telling Yakov the name of the club. Tells him he's sitting on the ground, in the alley out back._

_“Alright. I'm coming to get you.”_

_“... I'm drunk.” Viktor sobs weakly, scared and confused. He doesn't want Yakov to hate him._

_“That's alright.” Yakov says. “Just stay where you are. Don't move. Don't try to walk back to the hotel. I'll be there soon. Yes?”_

_Viktor nods._

_“Okay.” He answers._

_“I'll be there soon.” Yakov tells him one last time before the line goes dead._

_Viktor isn't sure how much times passes. _

_He sits there, and he feels cold and sick and scared, staring at the ground in front of him. He doesn't like what had happened with that guy. He doesn't understand how he'd even gotten into that situation with him. Thinking about it makes him feel like he's going to throw up again._

_Somebody puts their hand on his shoulder suddenly and Viktor starts badly, panic clamping down on his heart._

_“It's me Vitya.” _

_He looks up, and it's Yakov standing there, and Viktor starts sobbing again because he's a stupid little kid and he's so relieved to see his coach that he can't do anything else._

_Yakov doesn't say anything, simply kneeling down and wrapping Viktor in a tight hug._

_“I'm sorry... I'm sorry...” Viktor cries against his shoulder desperately.  
Yakov's hand comes up against the back of his head, holding him there._

_“It's alright.” He says. “It's alright Vitya.”_

_//_

_Yakov thinks, as he watches Vitya’s face light up with his blinding bright smile, his eyes glowing with a happiness he hasn’t seen in the boy in a long time, that this might actually have been a good idea._

_Viktor looks up at him. He’s nearly Yakov’s height now. Only maybe an inch shorter. His smile splits into a helpless grin, and his eyes look too bright suddenly, shimmering with threatening tears. He clasps his hands under his chin, and when he speaks, his voice is breathless, almost gasping._

_“Do I…?” He starts, then trails off, like he isn’t sure what he means to ask. “Are we, I mean…”_

_Yakov nods._

_“Yes, boy. We’re letting you adopt an animal. Whichever you like.”_

_He and Lilia had been discussing it over the last, few weeks. Letting Viktor adopt a pet. _

_Vitya’s birthday was tomorrow, and the boy had been having such a rough time of it the last year. Well, he’d been having a rough time of it his whole life, Yakov thinks bitterly._

_Viktor was lonely. He had no real friends. There was Georgi, of course, but he and Vitya were rink mates. Outside of their interaction during training, Yakov knew the two of them never really spoke. And at school, Viktor was often bullied for what he did. For his long hair. For being gay. It was often terrible for the boy. He put on a brave face, but Yakov and Lilia both knew he was struggling. It was common now for Viktor to grow listless, sitting and staring into the distance, troublingly unaware of his surroundings and unresponsive to conversation. The contrast of that listlessness to his usual energy and excitement was concerning, and often left Yakov feeling helpless and angry. Sometimes Yakov would find Viktor crying, hold up in his room, a pillow hugged to his chest, tears sliding silent down his face. _

_He didn’t know how to help the boy._

_It was Lilia who had suggested a pet. _

_“They have, what is it called… therapy dogs? They’re supposed to help with these sorts of things.” She’d said._

_These sorts of things, yes. There was a word for it. But here in Russia, it was rarely spoken. Looked upon with a kind of mocking derision, or even whispered about like some kind of scandal. _

_Viktor lets out a squeal of delight, and before Yakov can react, the boy has his arms thrown around him, hugging him tight and desperate. Yakov lifts a hand, patting him along the back. He feels his heart constrict, an odd mixture of fondness and fear. Viktor gave himself away when he acted like this. But this is who Viktor was. _

_He was such a sweet, gentle boy._

_“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Viktor cries against his shoulder. “Oh, thank you Yakov!”_

_“It’s nothing.” He insists, still clapping the boy along the back. “Now, let’s go and have a look, yes?”_

_Viktor nods, finally loosening his embrace._

_He steps back, looking up at Yakov with such naked gratitude, that Yakov has to look away._

_He hates when Vitya looks at him like that. Like he’s given the boy his only reason in life to live._

_//_

_Viktor labors over which animal to adopt. He loves all of them. He says so with each dog and cat they meet. It’s a kind of torture for the boy, that he can only take one of the animal’s home. Yakov can see Vitya struggling, his eyes glassy at the thought that he can’t help all of them. _

_He should have anticipated this, Yakov thinks, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose, massaging gently. Viktor was so sensitive. He felt too deeply sometimes. _

_“I wish I could take them all home with me.” Viktor says again, and he seems almost miserable, looking around helplessly. He stops at each cage, bending and talking to each animal, sticking his thin fingers through the mesh fencing and holes in plastic. _

_“I know Viktor. But you know it can only be one.” Yakov reminds him._

_Viktor nods, looking downcast. _

_“They’re all so wonderful.” He says quietly. “They all deserve a good home.”_

_“I know.” Yakov repeats._

_He doesn’t rush Viktor. It would only upset the boy if he did. He stands, trying to remain patient as Viktor continues to struggle with his decision._

_Finally, after an hour of looking and visiting with every animal in the place, Viktor decides._

_It’s a puppy. A standard poodle, the attendant tells them. Yakov isn’t really surprised by the choice. The dog had lit up bright as a star when they’d passed by her cage, leaping up onto her hind legs and pressing against the fence, yipping happily._

_Viktor had stopped, kneeling down and pressing up against the other side, hooking his fingers through the fencing, matching the dog’s excitement. He’d laughed joyfully when the puppy had licked at his fingers, and had sat there for a good fifteen minutes, cooing at and talking to the dog in French. _

_“She’ll get a lot bigger.” The attendant warns as she opens up the cage. Viktor either doesn’t hear her or doesn’t care, his arms opening wide as the poodle comes barreling out and leaps against his chest. Viktor scoops her up, hugging her against him, pressing his cheek to the top of her head._

_Yakov feels his heart twist as he watches._

_Poor boy, he thinks. Poor, lonely boy._

_//_

_Viktor names the puppy Makkachin, and goes absolutely nowhere without her; loves her with the kind of ardent devotion anyone who really knows him would absolutely expect._

_He walks her three times a day. Takes her on his runs. Washes her in the bath once a week. Insists of feeding her only the best food. Brushes her every day. Spends all his free time talking to her, playing with her, throwing the ball to her in the park near the rink. Brings her with him to practice, and gives her endless hugs and kisses before having to leave her in the locker room. During his breaks from the ice, he goes and visits her. Lets her sleep up on his bed every night, and Yakov finds him with his arms wrapped around her every morning when he goes to rouse the boy._

_Vitya gives Makkachin his heart, whole and open. Makkachin, to her great credit, loves Vitya back with just as much, unshakable devotion._

_She is the boy’s best friend._

_Yakov watches them, and thinks how Vitya has given his heart to so many people in the same way. He thinks, what a great indictment of their species then, when it is a dog who is the only one who so far has proven worthy of that love._

_//_

_“Come on. Come on, boy.”_

_“No. Nooo, Y-Yakooov, I d-don't...”_

_Yakov sighs, pausing a moment, his arms around Viktor's waist as he holds him up from behind._

_The boy is completely plastered, and in bad shape._

_It had been that Christoph boy to call Yakov this time, begging him to come to some new club they were at and get Viktor. He'd sounded almost frantic over the phone, saying Viktor was acting strange and erratic, vacillating between fits of laughter and fits of crying._

_It was the usual, Yakov had gathered. Some guy who'd been flirting with Viktor all night had walked out on him after making the poor boy think he was interested, and Viktor had taken it badly, as he always did._

_When Yakov had arrived at the club, the Christoph boy had been waiting for him at the entrance, and Yakov had felt grateful to him for leading him through the damned place to where Viktor was. He doesn't think he would have ever found him on his own, the club too filled up with dancing, sweaty bodies and ear shattering music blaring over the speakers. Yakov couldn't figure out how anyone was supposed to even think in a place like this, let alone try and hook up with someone else._

_Viktor had been slumped at the bar, his head laying against the counter, his hand loosely wrapped around an empty shot glass._

_The Christoph boy had shaken him by the shoulder, seeming to rouse from a half stupor of sleep, and Yakov had been able to immediately see what rough shape Vitya was in, his eyes obviously glassy and blood shot, even in the darkened lighting of the club._

_“Yaaakooovv!” He'd slurred, a big, goofy grin spreading across his face when, after a few, long seconds of staring, he'd finally recognized his coach._

_He'd tried standing, probably to try and give Yakov a hug, and he'd ended up falling forward, Yakov catching him as he tumbled off the stool, a dead weight in his arms._

_That's all it had taken to make the poor boy burst into sobs, crying helplessly against Yakov's chest._

_“Vitya, come on,” Yakov had tried, shoving away his own frustration and hurt at seeing the boy like this again. “let's get you back to the hotel.”_

_Viktor had protested, like he always did when this happened._

_“Nooo...” he'd whined pitifully. “N-no, he s-said... said he wanted to t-take me home w... with him. S-said he th... thought I was b-beautiful Yakooov, he s-said...”_

_They all said that. All the bastards who did this to Vitya._

_Vitya had never understood. He couldn't understand why someone would lie like that. Couldn't understand how his fame and open homosexuality made him a target. He was too damn trusting. Too desperate for some kind of real affection. For companionship. _

_It made Yakov sick to his heart, just to think of it, and he'd tried shoving the feelings down as he and the Christoph boy had struggled to get Viktor out of the club and into Yakov's car._

_The ride back to the hotel had been a bizarre mix of Viktor sobbing brokenly in the passenger seat and passing out against the window, and Yakov had nearly had to carry him bodily into the hotel elevator and then to his own room._

_He has him in the bathroom now, trying to get him to agree to a shower. It isn't going well._

_“Please Vitya, just... here, we need to get you out of these clothes. Let me help you.”_

_He moves Viktor towards the toilet, trying to maneuver him to sit on the lid. Viktor struggles and pulls weakly at Yakov's hold, fighting him the entire way. He's too drunk to be very effective though, thank God. Yakov knows he would never have the strength to hold Viktor still if the boy was sober._

_He manages to seat Viktor down, and it only takes him pushing the boy's arms down a few times before Viktor gives in, slumping limply, his head lolling forward until his chin is nearly touching his chest, and Yakov sets about undressing him, fumbling a moment with the tiny buttons of Viktor's shirt._

_It's a miracle, really, Yakov thinks, how smoothly the rest of it goes, and he's got Vitya up again, naked now, an arm around the boy's slim and powerful waist, one of Viktor's arms slung over Yakov's shoulders as he guides him to the shower stall._

_Vitya continues to babble about the guy at the club, and Yakov ignores him as he struggles to keep hold of Viktor while he turns on the shower spray, testing the temperature for a few, long seconds, before directing Viktor beneath the water._

_Viktor, predictably, wails in shock and tries to stumble away, but Yakov pushes him back, following him into the stall and keeping him there._

_“It's f-freezing... it's fr-freezing...” Viktor complains weakly, voice trembling, and Yakov takes hold of him by the upper arms, frowning. _

_“You need to sober up a little.” He tells the boy sternly, refusing to yield to the sudden, awful desire to give in and let Vitya alone to wallow. “Come then, don't whine.”_

_Viktor sniffles pathetically, fresh tears slipping down his cheeks, washing away with the spray of water, and Yakov can feel when his knees give out._

_He sinks to the floor of the stall with Viktor, keeping his hold on him tight._

_Viktor begins to cry in earnest again, and Yakov reaches up, his heart like a dead weight pressing against his ribs as he pushes his hand through the boys soaked hair, up off his face._

_“... I'm sorry.” Viktor weeps brokenly. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry...”_

_“... It's alright.” Yakov answers tightly, his throat feeling closed up, eyes stinging. “It's alright Vitya.”_

_“... I... I'm such an i-idiot... I'm so s-stupid...”_

_Yakov shakes his head._

_“No.”_

_“... I th-thought... I thought he liked me. I really thought...”_

_“He doesn't deserve you Vitya. Whoever the hell he is. He isn't worth all this sadness boy. Please.”_

_He watches as Viktor reaches a hand up, his long fingers twisting in the long strands of his hair, tugging painfully as he face lines in naked misery._

_“... Is... is there something wrong with me Yakov?” _

_Yakov hadn't thought this could be any worse._

_The words from Vitya's mouth produce a sudden, almost blinding swell of rage in his chest, only for it to be washed over by overwhelming grief as the boy's face crumples and he falls forward, his hands grasping and curling into the material of his shirt, weeping brokenly against his chest._

_“Y-you would tell me if s-something was wrong with me, wouldn't you Yakov? Y-you wouldn't lie to me. You wouldn't, would you?”_

_“There's nothing wrong with you Vitya.” Yakov answers back. “Damn it, don't think that. Don't ever let other people make you feel that.”_

_“... It's what I feel when they... like there's something wrong...”_

_Yakov reaches out, cupping Viktor's face in his hands, lifting his head so that the boy can look at him._

_“Vitya...” he says, voice low and determined. “You're one of the greatest athletes in the world. The greatest figure skater in the world. There's nothing wrong with you. Yes? There's nothing wrong with you.”_

_Viktor's eyes flit away, and he nods weakly, tears gathering still and slipping down his cheeks, and Yakov can tell the boy doesn't really believe him. _

_And there's nothing Yakov hates worse than this, he thinks. Nothing he hates worse than his own helplessness in the face of Vitya's despair._

“It's alright Vitya.” Yakov says, and he watches as Viktor's eyes squeeze shut, his face creased in pain. Watches Viktor nod, even as his whole body trembles viciously with the effort of simply holding himself upright long enough to span the few feet from the wheel chair to the toilet, Yakov doing his best to support the majority of his weight over his shoulders, his arm around Viktor's waist. 

The boy's breathing is labored and heavy in the small space of the bathroom, and again Yakov wishes he hadn't agreed to this. 

It had been more than a month now, of Viktor being in this place, his progress slow and agonizing. Some days, it seemed to Yakov, practically nonexistent. 

The swelling and bruising of Viktor's face and body has at last begun to fade, though the remnants of it were still there. Still visible. His bones remained horribly broken.

The greatest sign of recovery had happened today, with them at last removing Viktor's catheter. 

The recommendation had been for Viktor to use a bed pan. 

Viktor, prideful boy that he is, had begged to be able to use the bathroom. Had made the ridiculous request that he be able to try it alone, at first, when the nurses had offered their assistance.

That had been roundly denied him, and so Viktor had asked Yakov. Better him, he guessed, than practical strangers. 

Yakov could hardly blame the boy for his embarrassment.

Whatever privacy he'd once had, precious little of it as there was, even that had been robbed him now. 

That spoke nothing of the humiliation Yakov knows the boy is feeling.

Viktor was a world class athlete. The very definition. 

He was used to being able to perform physical feats impossible for any regular human. In truth, feats impossible for any other world class skater. He was the best that had ever done it. Had been the best...

And now he couldn't even use the bathroom on his own.

Yakov reaches out quickly, flipping the lid of the toilet up, cursing himself for not thinking to do it before he'd lifted Viktor from his chair.

It's a struggle to get Viktor turned around and onto the seat of the bowl, and Yakov wishes too that Katsuki hadn't taken Makkachin for a fucking walk so that he could be the one doing this. He's too old for this shit. He really, really is. 

His own breaths are labored and heavy as he braces himself for a moment against the bathroom sink, keeping one hand on Vitya's shoulder.

“Okay?” He asks after a moment, eying Viktor carefully.

The boy looks anything but, he thinks, his face sheened in sweat, his breathing heavier still than Yakov's, features twisted in obvious pain. Why couldn't he have just pissed in the stupid bottle, or whatever that thing had been they'd tried to get him to use?

Viktor nods, no conviction in the gesture.

“... Just... need a minute...” he stammers out.

His right arm is the only limb of his not encased entirely in plaster, and he holds it out, his long fingers grasping to the lip of the sink, knuckles white as his hands shake.

Yakov pushes away from the sink, knees protesting loudly as he squats at Viktor's side, next to the toilet, and reaches up, brushing the boy's bangs back off his face.

There are tears in his eyes, slipping silent down his cheeks, and Yakov shakes his head.

“Vitya...”

“I'm alright.” Viktor tells him, and Yakov doesn't believe him for a minute. 

“What's wrong?”

“... It's just my ribs hurt.” Viktor admits after a long moment, and Yakov hears himself exhale harshly.

“Shit, I didn't...?”

Viktor shakes his head.

“No, they've been hurting all morning. 

Yakov studies him a moment.

“Is the morphine not working?” He asks carefully.

He knows that stuff was addictive. He'd been worried about that since the start of all this. That Vitya would get hooked on it, and coming down off it would only add more difficulty to what was already going to be a nightmare recovery process.

Viktor shakes his head.

“No, it... it's working. It's just never been a hundred percent, b-blocking the pain.”

Yakov sucks in a breath, tight lipped, not knowing what to say.

Viktor hadn't said anything before. Hadn't complained.

Maybe Yakov needed to speak with Vitya's doctor later about upping the dosage of pain killers. He doesn't want the boy to get addicted, but if he was suffering like this in silence, something needed to be done.

Viktor's strained laughter pulls Yakov from his thoughts, and he looks up at the boy.

“I don't think I've ever peed sitting down like this.” Viktor says, somehow finding it in himself to grin at Yakov. “At least, not since I was a toddler, probably.”

“... Yes, well...” Yakov stammers, face slightly warm with embarrassment. And he realizes suddenly how much that was like Viktor, to say something most would consider humiliating so unabashedly, without shame. And with the realization, he feels his heart lift, if only a little.

Viktor's grin grows wider, and he bursts out laughing again, no doubt able to see the blush Yakov can feel warming his cheeks.

He winces a moment later.

“Ow...” he groans, laughter cutting sharply off.

“Don't laugh Vitya.” Yakov warns, reaching out and stopping just short. “Are you alright?”

Viktor nods, his face screwed up in a grimace.

“Y-yeah...” he puffs. “F-fine...”

“You're sure?” Yakov presses.

Once more Viktor nods, his eyes coming back open. He smiles again, the expression weaker, a little watery, and Yakov doesn't understand how he finds the strength to smile at all. To laugh.

This boy's courage will never cease to amaze him, he thinks.

“Can... can you help me with...” Viktor starts after a moment more, and he nods down at his own lap. “I don't want to get the gown dirty...”

“Oh... of course...” Yakov fumbles, pushing himself upright.

It's awkward, but really, it's not like Yakov hasn't seen Viktor naked countless times, or helped him in situations like this before. Times when Viktor had been so drunk, Yakov had had to strip him and get him into a cold shower. Had to get in with him and hold his head up so he wouldn't collapse and drown in a shallow puddle underneath the spray. Times when Viktor had been injured, or sick, and Yakov had had to take care of him, get him washed and fed, make sure he took whatever medications he needed.

Yakov's seen Viktor in every imaginable compromised state, he supposes. 

He guesses that's why Viktor's so comfortable now, with him pulling the hospital gown out from underneath his thighs. With Yakov standing in the room with him as he urinates into the toilet, the sound of his piss hitting the water loud in the otherwise silent, small space.

Viktor trusts him. He's trusted him since he was a little boy.

It's one of the things, he thinks, which he's most proud of. Beside the fact he'd coached the greatest figure skater to have ever lived in Viktor.

That he'd earned Viktor's trust so completely. 

In some ways, Yakov thinks, he's most proud of that fact above all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuuri thinks about the past, and wonders about the future...

Yuuri dips the cloth into the bowl, bringing it back up and wringing the cold water from it until it’s only damp. He leans forward, running the cloth across Viktor’s shoulders, down into the dip of his throat. He’s got Viktor’s hospital gown peeled down to his waist, and he drags the cloth lower, across Viktor’s chest, gently lifting his arms to wash the pits, cleaning the sweat and grime from his skin as best he can.

Viktor’s eyes are closed, his breath steady and even.

The bruising which before had been so terrifyingly deep, turning Viktor’s pale white skin black with ruin, has at last started to heal, leaving swaths of his skin a mottled mix of blue and grin and yellow. Still, Viktor is fragile and sensitive to too much pressure, and so Yuuri works hard to be as gentle and soft as possible as he washes his fiancé. 

It’s difficult to keep Viktor clean like this. He can’t scrub, and with the casts of plaster covering so much of his body, there’s only so much Yuuri can do. It upsets Viktor, not being able to wash. He worries that he smells. Yuuri assures him that he doesn’t. Viktor’s never had strong body odor. Even times when he would be drenched in sweat from a hard run through of a routine, or coming back from a brisk jog, Viktor has always been blessed with a naturally pleasant scent. But it’s everything, Yuuri knows. The feeling of sweat and grime. The feeling of his hair, matted and tangled with it. The inability to do anything, really, to keep up his hygiene. Viktor was such a tidy, well-groomed person. Yuuri thinks it’s its own kind of torture for him, being forced to sit here like this, relying on others to keep him clean and presentable. Yuuri’s taken over as many of those personal duties from the nurses as he can, knowing Viktor was far more comfortable with Yuuri handling him this way. That includes this. Giving Viktor sponge baths. He combs and brushes Viktor’s hair daily, which is getting longer. He brushes Viktor’s teeth for him, flosses for him.

Viktor keeps telling him over and over how sorry he is, like he’s somehow done something wrong, and Yuuri keeps telling him it’s alright. And it is. It truly is. It’s nothing to Yuuri, to care for Viktor. The love of his life. It’s the least he can do. He wishes, more than anything, he could do more. He tries to make Viktor understand that. To make him see that there’s no reason to be ashamed. Whether he’s succeeding, Yuuri has no idea. Viktor looks, at times, so despondent, some days so uncharacteristically withdrawn and quiet. It frightens Yuuri. He’s trying so hard to keep Viktor from slipping.

As he drags the cloth down to Viktor’s abdomen, Viktor’s eyes come open, exhaustion standing out plain. He looks up at Yuuri, smiling weakly.

“Mmm, Yuuri… that feels nice.” He mutters, voice soft and slightly slurred from the drugs.

Yuuri smiles back at him, lifting a hand, pressing his palm to Viktor’s forehead.

“I brought “The Brothers Karamazov”.” He says. “Original Russian. I thought I’d try reading it to you aloud. Work on my Russian maybe.”

Viktor’s smile widens, a quiet laugh huffing past his dry lips.

“That might be too advanced for you right now, my love.” He says bluntly.

“Hey! I’ve been getting better! Besides, you love this book.”

Viktor keeps smiling, and he reaches his own hand up, cupping Yuuri’s cheek.

“I love you.” He says. 

Yuuri grasps Viktor’s hand, pulling it from his face and pressing his lips to the inside of his wrist.

“I love you too.” He whispers.

//

Yuuri reads to Viktor for a while. Or, he tries. Of course, Viktor had been right. Dostoevsky was maybe a little too much to try reading in its original language when Yuuri’s grasp on Russian was rudimentary at best. 

Viktor, though, hadn’t seemed to mind. He laughed and corrected Yuuri on his pronunciation, helping him along when he got stuck on a particularly difficult passage. It was relaxing, and fun, getting language lessons from him. Viktor was some kind of polyglot, Yuuri was convinced. He picked up on languages so fast. Hardly a month after coming to Hasetsu, he’d developed enough of a grasp of Japanese to hold fluid, if basic conversations with the local town’s people and Yuuri’s own family. Now, of course, he was essentially fluent. There were a few snags every once in a while, less than perfect grammar or pronunciation, only Yuuri thinks that was just because they didn’t really communicate in Yuuri’s native tongue all that much. But he knew, also, if he wanted to spend the whole day speaking in Japanese to Viktor, Viktor would have no trouble keeping up.

Yuuri could boast no such talent, unfortunately. He’d been studying Russian fairly regularly every day since moving to St. Petersburg, and it still seemed to him an insurmountable task. Viktor, of course, disagreed, and had been doing everything he could to help Yuuri with the language. 

Eventually, Viktor had started to drift, his hand held in Yuuri’s own as Yuuri continued to stammer and stumble over the words on the page. 

Yuuri isn’t entirely sure when it is Viktor had fallen asleep, only when he finally lifts his eyes from the book, Viktor’s head is slouched to the side, his lips slightly parted and eyes closed, steady breathes lifting his still bare chest. 

Yuuri closes the book, placing it down on the bedside table. Carefully he extracts his hand from Viktor’s hold, before reaching out, brushing Viktor’s bangs back off his face.

The scarring around his eye is hard to look at. The doctor’s say it will fade, eventually. But for now it remains an angry and gnarled red. 

In his own thoughts, Yuuri often thinks it’s hard to look at Viktor in general now. Each time it comes into his head, he immediately scolds himself, an awful, overwhelming guilt choking his throat.

It wasn’t that he found Viktor unattractive now. God no. Viktor, to him, was as beautiful as ever, and always would be. It was just the constant reminder of what had happened. Of what they’d done to Viktor. Yuuri found himself in a state of panicked anxiety when he allowed his thoughts to linger too long on it. On the memories of how he’d found Viktor. The state Viktor had been in. When he allows himself to imagine what it had been like, when those men had started beating him. How scared Viktor must have been…

Yuuri feels his eyes burn, and he turns his face away, sudden nausea turning in his gut. God, he can’t…

Some days it’s just too much. He can feel himself rebelling against the reality of it all, his brain trying to distance itself. Disassociate, he knows it’s called. 

He dreams almost every night that Viktor is whole and healthy. His beautiful face smiling down at Yuuri, eyes filled with joy and love. He dreams of Viktor on the ice, skating the most beautiful routine of his life, and he’s perfect. So perfect. 

And then he wakes, and Viktor is lying there beside him, his body wrecked beyond repair. Broken and wasting away in a hospital bed. 

Yuuri knows the likelihood of Viktor ever skating competitively again is next to nothing. He knows he’d essentially been lying, when he’d told Viktor he would. It was just… he couldn’t bear to acknowledge out loud what his logical brain was telling him.

Skaters careers were fragile and short lived. They often came to an end from the most seemingly minor of injuries. And there was nothing minor about anything that Viktor had suffered. He wasn’t ever going to be the same again. Not physically. 

Yuuri could hardly imagine it. What it would be like, when Viktor’s bones finally healed. How he was going to have to learn all over again how to just _walk_. Never mind figure skating.

Yuuri doesn’t want to think about what it will be like, trying to go on with his own career, when Viktor’s has in all probability come to a brutal end. He doesn’t want to think about what this is going to do to their dynamic as student and coach. Viktor was a hands-on teacher. He liked to be out there on the ice with Yuuri to show him what he meant. He wasn’t so great at communicating it in words. 

In truth, Yuuri had, over these last, few weeks, been contemplating retirement. He hadn’t told Viktor, of course. Or anyone, for that matter. Yuuri knew how much it would hurt Viktor, if he knew. Knew Viktor would protest bitterly and try everything in his power to dissuade Yuuri from ending his own career. 

Yuuri didn’t _want_ to retire. But… the Olympics were coming up in February, and Yuuri was 25 now. The chance of him ever getting another opportunity to compete at the games wasn’t good, considering he would be close to 30 by the time the next competition rolled around. He didn’t expect any kind of freakish longevity on his part similar to Viktor’s. And anyway, Yurio wasn’t even in his prime yet. He would only get stronger and more dominate in the years to come, and Yuuri knew his chances of winning any meaningful competitions against the kid diminished with each new season. Not to mention the constant new crop of young talent that appeared each year. 

The more Yuuri thought about it, the less viable continuing on in his career seemed. And if Viktor wasn’t able to continue as his coach, well then… Yuuri saw no point at all.

It hurt to think of. Yuuri had wanted it so much. To be a champion. A world champion. An Olympic champion. He’d come so close over these last two years, making the podium in the last two Grand Prix finals. The last two Worlds. That was nothing to be ashamed of. Something, in fact, to be proud of. Viktor had shown him he wasn’t just some average ice skater. He’d shown Yuuri he had world class talent. That he had talent enough to finish routinely amongst the best three skaters in the world. 

If he’d lost the big competitions so far, that was okay, because he’d lost to Viktor, and Yurio. Had even beat the both of them, in competitions along the way. And anyway, losing to Viktor was the best way to lose. Yuuri thinks he would gladly take countless more second and third place finishes, if it meant getting to continue competing against his fiancé out there on the ice. But… Viktor was done, probably, and Yuuri was going to have to be there for him now. He was going to have to take care of Viktor, the way Viktor had taken care of him these last two years.

He has no idea what Viktor’s recovery is going to actually entail. The doctor’s warnings and information did little to give Yuuri any real sense of what to expect. All he knows, he thinks, is that it’s going to be hard, and painful, and Viktor was going to need Yuuri’s devotion and dedication.

He worries, because he doesn’t know what it’s going to do to them. The both of them.

Yuuri’s own anxiety aside, the stress he was already experiencing from it all, he worries most of all about Viktor, and what the long-term effects of his recovery are going to be on his mental state.

Viktor has depression.

It had taken Yuuri what he thinks is a shamefully long time to realize that about him, even as he’d seen signs of it early on in their relationship. He supposes he’d just been in denial, maybe. 

He hadn’t realized it, really, until so much later, when he’d seen firsthand the fallout of his trying to break it off with Viktor. How depressed Viktor had been, when before Yuuri could scarcely imagine what that would even look like, so accustomed by then to Viktor’s boundless energy and enthusiasm. But then it was glaringly evident, in the way Viktor had grown sluggish and almost mute the whole rest of the night and into the following day. Seemingly unable to smile at all, save for a few, watery attempts which faded as soon as he forced them, when before smiles had come more readily to Viktor’s lips than any other expression. The way his eyes had grown glassy with tears every time he looked at Yuuri the following morning, leading up to the free skate in the Grand Prix final.

God, Yuuri thinks, he’d been so _stupid_, shame still taking him even now when he thinks of it.

_He’d_ broken _Viktor’s_ heart. _Him_.

Yuuri supposes that was the first time he’d truly realized that low self-esteem could have a negative impact on people outside of oneself. That it could be just as devastating to the people who cared about you as it was to yourself.

Allowing himself to acknowledge that Viktor had his own frailties had allowed Yuuri to remember back further even, to moments which, in context, stood out as red warning flags that Viktor wasn’t entirely okay. Maybe wasn’t really okay at all…

_“Wow, he’s really out, isn’t he?”_

_“… Yeah.” Yuuri blinks, his own disbelief matching his sisters as the two of them stand, staring down at Viktor, passed out on the floor of their inn’s dining room._

_His new coach and friend… his childhood idol, had drunk himself silly during the night, in celebration of Yuuri’s win at the qualifier to get him into the Grand Prix series. Viktor had been so excited and happy about it, one would have been forgiven for thinking Yuuri had won the Olympics or something, instead of a local competition against a bunch of teenagers. _

_“Yuuri!” Viktor had exclaimed in over the top enthusiasm when the final scores had come down, and he’d lifted Yuuri up into a hug, twirling him in the air and laughing. “You did it!”_

_Yuuri had felt vaguely embarrassed by Viktor’s excitement over the whole thing, but of course, he hadn’t said a word, and Viktor had insisted on a celebration. Yuuri’s own family hadn’t helped matters, their own joy seeming to match Viktor’s, and by the time they’d made it back to Yu-Topia, his mother and father had gathered all their friends and laid out a veritable feast, the food and alcohol flowing all night._

_Viktor had grown steadily more and more drunk as the night had worn on, draping across Yuuri and singing his praises to anyone who would listen._

_Finally, around 11:30, people had started to head out and home, and an hour later, it was just Yuuri, his family and Viktor left in the dining room._

_Viktor had collapsed from where he’d been sitting at one of the low tables, listing sideways and passing out on the floor, an empty shot glass in his hand._

_Yuuri and Mari had been watching him for the last five minutes, trying to figure out what to do with him._

_Yuuri half thought they should just leave him where he is and let him sleep. Mari thought they should carry him up to his room and put him in his bed. Admittedly, that would be kinder. Chances were, if they left Viktor on the hard wood floor of the dining room, he was going to wake up with a stiff back and neck, on top of what was sure to be a wicked hang over._

_… It was just, the thought of touching Viktor when he was like this… when he was vulnerable, left Yuuri feeling unreasonably nervous and wrong footed._

_It was strange, seeing Viktor in a less than perfectly controlled state. Yuuri almost felt like he was seeing something he really shouldn’t._

_“Come on, let’s bring him up to his room.” Mari insists again, and Yuuri sighs._

_“Alright.” He finally relents. “You get his legs and I’ll get his shoulders.”_

_Carrying Viktor up the flight of stairs and down the hall is unexpectedly easy, given how surprisingly light Viktor is. Yuuri had thought, because of how tall he is, he would have weighed more, and thinks he could have easily enough carried Viktor himself._

_Viktor wakes briefly as Yuuri is undoing the laces of his expensive dress shoes, slipping them free of his feet, and peeling his socks off._

_“… Yuuuriii…” he half slurs, his voice heavy with exhaustion and confusion. “… Where are we Yuuri?”_

_Viktor’s accent is noticeably thicker like this, making it hard to understand what he’s saying._

_“Just in your room, in Yu-Topia.” Yuuri tells him softly, coming up around and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. _

_Viktor stares up at him with half-lidded eyes, and Yuuri stares back. _

_He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the color of Viktor’s eyes. They’re so startlingly blue, they seem unreal. Impossibly clear and bright and alive._

_The same way he isn’t sure if he’ll ever get used to the kindness of Viktor’s face._

_That was something he’d realized, the first few weeks after Viktor had come here. Something which he’d never noticed, somehow, in the countless interviews he’d watched with Viktor. How kind Viktor’s face is. _

_Not many people’s faces match who they are inside._

_Viktor’s matched him perfectly._

_“… How did we get here?” Viktor asks, sounding on the verge of falling back asleep._

_Yuuri smiles at him._

_“We carried you. Me and Mari.” He nods towards his sister, who’s standing on the other side of the bed._

_Viktor’s eyes widen slightly at that revelation._

_“Ohhhh!” He breathes in wonder. And then he giggles like a child, his hands coming clumsily to his chest, clutching the material of his shirt, almost desperately. Almost pained seeming._

_His lips pull up into a goofy, wide grin. “Yuuuriii… you did-didn’t have to…”_

_Yuuri shrugs, reaching down and tugging the blanket up a little._

_“It’s no big deal.” He promises, and when he looks back at Viktor, he sees Viktor looking back, his brow slightly furrowed, as though he’s thinking hard about something._

_“… Yuuri… you’re so nice to me Yuuri…” he says, almost too softly to hear. “L-like a hero out of a fairytale. Yuuri…”_

_For a moment, Viktor’s eyes look over bright, even in the dim lighting of the room, and there’s such a sullen sadness to the way he’s just spoken, that Yuuri finds himself almost taken aback, uncertain and even a little worried._

_“Viktor?” He tries._

_Viktor’s eyes slip closed._

_“…So nice…” he says, and his voice fades with the words, so soft, Yuuri isn’t sure he’d said them at all._

_The deep, even rise and fall of Viktor’s chest lets Yuuri know he’s fallen asleep again, and he stands there a moment, staring down at his new coach, feeling vaguely bewildered._

_“… Poor thing.” _

_Mari’s voice tears him out of his own reverie, and he looks up at her, seeing her looking down at Viktor, the same way he had been moments ago._

_“Huh?”_

_Mari looks up at him. She nods down at Viktor._

_“… I feel kind of bad for him. You know?”_

_Yuuri blinks at her._

_No. He doesn’t know._

_“… Why?” He asks bluntly, not really understanding what she means. _

_Mari smiles ruefully at him, and she shrugs._

_“He seems lonely to me.” She says quietly. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s got to be hard anyway, coming here to a new country where he doesn’t speak the language and doesn’t know anybody. That must have taken a lot of guts, just to do that. Well, I guess you would know what that’s like, huh?”_

_Yuuri frowns, studying his sister a moment, before glancing back down at Viktor, lying there, breathing steadily, his lips slightly parted and silver hair half falling over his young face. It did take a lot of guts, he thinks. To come here, without really knowing what to expect, or for how long he would be staying. Whether he would be welcome or not. Or maybe Viktor was just so sure of himself, that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of rejection, or failure._

_Yuuri had never really thought of what else his sister said. Of Viktor being lonely. _

_Viktor was… well, he was Viktor. He was Viktor Nikiforov. The most decorated figure skater in history. The acknowledged greatest of all time. Everybody loved him. Everybody wanted to be like him…_

_“He really likes you, you know bro.” Mari says, and Yuuri’s head jerks up. She’s looking at him with a heavy kind of seriousness he isn’t used to from her. “You should try being nicer to him.”_

_“What?! I… I am nice! He just said I was nice!”_

_“Sure.” Mari shrugs again. “Sort of. But you know how you can be Yuuri. You tend to keep people at a distance. With him, I think, even if you don’t mean to, you might end up hurting him. He tries really hard.”_

_Yuuri feels an unexpected burst of defensive anger, his mouth pulling into a frown._

_“I would never hurt him.” He snaps a little heatedly. _

_“I know you wouldn’t intentionally.” Mari says back calmly. “Just be careful, okay? I think he’s a little fragile.”_

_Yuuri almost laughs at that._

_Viktor was the last person he would call fragile. Yuuri had never met someone with that kind of confidence. Someone who believed so completely in their ability to do something. _

_If he had even half that much confidence…_

_He looks back down at Viktor, and thinks, for a moment, that he looks small. Vulnerable. A real, actual person, with human problems and limitations. Not like the untouchable idol of Yuuri’s youth. He wonders._

_He feels Mari’s hand clamp down on his shoulder._

_“Just be careful Yuuri, is all I’m saying. He’s got it bad for you, and you can be a little mean, even if you don’t mean to be. Something about him makes me think…” she trails off, shaking her head. “… just be careful. Be nice.”_

_He listens to his sister leave the room without another word, his eyes moving back to Viktor._

_She’s wrong, he thinks, even as his heart beats uncomfortably in his chest, something too close to hope lighting there. _

_Viktor liked him, yeah. As a friend. And maybe as a challenge. But Mari was wrong if she thought it was anything more than a passing interest. Someone like Viktor Nikiforov didn’t fall in love with someone like Katsuki Yuuri. Didn’t even get a crush on someone like him. That just didn’t happen._

_Yuuri knows… he knows, as soon as Viktor lost that interest, he would be gone. And it was only right, that it be that way. Viktor meant too much to the world. He meant too much to too many people, for Yuuri to keep him all to himself, no matter how much he wishes, deep down, that he could._

_He can only hope, when that day comes, when he’ll need to give Viktor back to the world, he can only hope he’ll have the strength in himself to do so._

_And it’s so confusing, he thinks, as he turns away finally, moving silently out of the room and sliding the door closed behind him, how it seems like Viktor coming here is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and at the same time, he wishes almost desperately that he never had. Because Mari’s wrong. It’s not Viktor who’s in love here. It’s him. He’s in love with Viktor. And he knows, someday soon, it’s going to end with him having a broken heart._

Yuuri thinks he should listen to his big sister more often.

She’d been right about Viktor. God, had she been right.

She’d been right about _him_ too.

Yuuri had learned, or maybe it was more he’d finally allowed himself to see that, for as confident and sure as Viktor could often seem, it was just as often he felt deeply uncertain and even fearful. That, just as Yuuri himself suffered bouts of anxiety and, at times, a devastating sense of social isolation, Viktor was susceptible to bouts of depression. With the incredible highs sometimes came incredible lows.

Yuuri hadn’t gotten a true glimpse of just how bad it could be though until after he had moved with Viktor to St. Petersburg and he’d witnessed, a few weeks into Viktor’s comeback to competitive skating, the longest and most severe case of depression Yuuri thinks he’d ever seen in another person. 

It had been terrifying, and awful in a way Yuuri hadn’t known at the time how to handle.

Anxiety wasn’t the same thing as depression, though the disorders shared some of the same features.

Viktor was, the majority of the time, incredibly upbeat and happy. But when he crashed, he crashed _hard_. 

That’s what had happened then.

Viktor had come in third after his first competition back, during Russian Nationals. Had come in second in his next contest. He’d been more than fine with both placements. Viktor was about as competitive as a person could be, of course. And of course, he always wanted to win. He wasn’t going to _let_ anyone beat him. He was always going to try and come first. But he was alright with losing too. He was a gracious and generous loser, on the rare occasion he was.

For a while, then, Yuuri had convinced himself it was, by any standard, the insane workload Viktor had taken upon himself by choosing to both compete and be Yuuri’s coach. His schedule had, to Yuuri, seemed untenable, waking up hours before Yuuri, well before the sun came up, in order to get to the rink to practice alone, before Yuuri would eventually show up for his own practice, and Viktor would work with him all through late morning, into the early afternoon, not only on his technique, but on the choreography that Viktor himself had created. All this before receiving his own coaching from Yakov in the latter part of the afternoon. 

Viktor was pulling eleven, twelve hour days at the rink. That, on top of off the ice training. Dance class, weights, morning runs, sometimes shifted to the evening when he needed to spend even more time at the rink working out the kinks in his routines.

Viktor was at the rink long before Yuuri, and back home long after Yuuri had returned there himself. 

Compounding the whole thing was the fact that, when there wasn’t a scheduling conflict between their competitions, Viktor would travel with Yuuri to his competitions, to be there for him and coach him, despite Yuuri’s insisting that it wasn’t necessary. That Viktor needed to take as much down time as he could get.

Of course Yuuri had been concerned. He’d openly spoken about those worries with Viktor, who had assured him again and again that he was alright. That he could handle it. And, in truth, there was no evidence to the contrary. 

Viktor had taken a mere couple of months to catch up to all of them and start winning competitions again. And his coaching of Yuuri hadn’t suffered at all, as far as Yuuri was able to tell. He still paid as much care and attention to Yuuri and what he needed as he ever had. Had taken as much, if not more time, creating a routine for Yuuri that would let him win, if he could execute it to perfection.

When the crash had come, it had been on the heels of Viktor’s first win of the season.

Yuuri had known something was wrong when he’d woken up and Viktor was still lying next to him in bed. He hadn’t been sleeping. He’d just been lying there, curled up on his side, staring vacantly ahead at nothing. He’d been facing Yuuri, but Yuuri had been able to tell he wasn’t really seeing him. More like looking through him. And when Yuuri had called out to him, confused and already worried, Viktor had taken so long to reply, Yuuri had thought he wasn’t going to answer at all.

“_… Did you say something?” Viktor’s eyes at last seem to focus, shifting up to Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri feels the worry in his gut tighten. Even Viktor’s tone of voice sounds off. Flat and emotionless._

_“I called your name.” Yuuri says. “How come you’re still here? Didn’t you have practice this morning?”_

_Viktor looks at him for long seconds, that same, absent expression in his eyes._

_“… I didn’t feel like going in.” He says at last, and Yuuri feels a wave of anxiousness unravel inside his chest. _

_Viktor must see it in his face, because finally he sits up, reaching out and taking hold of Yuuri’s hands. He smiles, and the expression looks forced and exhausted, his eyes dull._

_“Do you think you would be able to practice on your own today Yuuri?” He asks._

_“Are you sick? Do you feel unwell or something?” Yuuri questions instead of answering, not bothering to hide the concern in his voice._

_The unconvincing smile drops from Viktor’s face, and slowly he shakes his head, his eyes casting away._

_“… No, I just… don’t feel up to it today.”_

_If Yuuri was worried before, he feels the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack threatening to crash down on him._

_Viktor didn’t feel up to it today? Up to what? What did he even mean? If he meant training, then that was an absolute first. Yuuri had never seen Viktor anything less than willing and ready to face the day’s requirements. Obviously, there were days where he was less enthusiastic about it than others, but by and large, Viktor was always motivated and even keen on getting started. _

_He must be sick, and just didn’t want to admit it, Yuuri thinks, trying to shove down his growing anxiety._

_He forces his own smile, trying to be subtle as he pulls one of his own hands free of Viktor’s hold, reaching up and pressing his palm to Viktor’s cheek. _

_Viktor doesn’t feel warm to the touch, so Yuuri doesn’t think he has a fever._

_That was good, he supposes. But it did nothing to explain what was causing Viktor to act so strangely. Nothing to assuage Yuuri’s own growing worry._

_“Okay.” He says. “I can handle today alone. How about I make you some tea before heading out?”_

_“Okay.” Viktor agrees, and Yuuri watches unhappily as he lies back down in bed, showing no intention of getting up._

_Don’t freak out Yuuri, he tells himself, leaning over and pressing a kiss on Viktor’s cheek before forcing himself from the bed. Maybe it was just a stomachache or something, in which case the tea would definitely help. Viktor got stomach aches, sometimes really bad ones. Something else Yuuri had learned about his boyhood idol when he’d come to Hasetsu, and he’d seen more and more that Viktor was, in fact, human. He got stomach aches because he has an incredibly sensitive stomach. There were a lot of things he couldn’t eat, anything really spicy, or hot. Anything that was too sweet also. Or rather, those were foods Viktor shouldn’t eat. But Viktor, to his own detriment, loved to try every type of new food he could, despite knowing he would pay for it later, which inevitably, he always did. He also suffered from severe migraines, which he took medication for. The first time Yuuri had seen one of those hit Viktor, he’d been scared out of his mind. And some days Viktor’s knees bothered him badly. _

_ It was still difficult for Yuuri to wrap his mind around the physical frailties Viktor suffered, stupid as that was._

_He tries to quash the building uncertainty as first he uses the bathroom before he heads to the kitchen to make the tea. It wouldn’t do any good to panic. Whatever was bothering Viktor, Viktor would probably tell him, eventually._

_Any thoughts of rational reaction fly out the window when he comes back to their room a few minutes later, and coming around the bed with a cup of tea held in his hands, he sees Viktor still lying there. Only now there are tears slipping quick and ceaseless from his eyes, the same, blank gaze._

_“Viktor, what’s wrong!?” Yuuri blurts, barely managing to place the hot cup on the nightstand before jumping onto the bed and towards his boyfriend._

_Yuuri reaches for him, pulling him up, and Viktor reaches back, putting his arms around Yuuri almost desperately, pressing his face to Yuuri’s shoulder._

_“What’s wrong baby?” Yuuri asks, trying to keep his own voice calm as Viktor cries quietly against him._

_“… I don’t know.” Viktor admits after long seconds, his voice soft, almost frail. _

_“Are you in pain?” Yuuri presses, frightened, and he feels Viktor shake his head._

_“No, it’s not… nothing’s wrong, it just… this happens to me, sometimes. I…”_

_“What? What is it Vitya?” Yuuri encourages as Viktor’s voice trails off, and he presses his face harder to Yuuri’s shoulder._

_“I didn’t want you to know. I thought you would…”_

_“Know what Vitya?”_

_“That… that this happens to me. I get like this, like… what is the word, I can’t think it… down, I think.”_

_“… Depressed?” Yuuri offers hesitantly._

_Viktor’s hold on him tightens, and Yuuri hears a shuttering breath push past his lips._

_“Da… depressed. I thought, with you here, it wouldn’t happen again. So no need to tell you, I thought. I didn’t want you to know.”_

_“… Why?” Yuuri asks, confused and, despite himself, a little hurt. He had thought Viktor trusted him. He had trusted Viktor. Had learned to, anyway. Opening up to him about his issues with anxiety. And Viktor had learned so well how to help Yuuri through attacks when they happened, after initially not knowing at all how to handle them. If Viktor was suffering from depression, Yuuri hoped that Viktor would look to him for help._

_“… I… I didn’t want for you to… to be frightened away.”_

_Yuuri blinks, taking a moment to process the words._

_“What?” He starts, pulling back. “Viktor, I could never…”_

_“Because… because I know what a… what a burden it can be, to… to be around… this.” Viktor gestures at himself almost violently, his face twisting in disgust. _

_The expression is so out of place on Viktor’s usually smiling, kind face, Yuuri is momentarily left mute, simply staring, mind twisting in bemusement._

_“Viktor…”_

_“I didn’t want you to know because… I thought, you might think maybe, it is too much, this, along with everything else about me. I… I know this about myself. That I can be too much. It wears on people. Yes. I know this. But I didn’t want you to feel that too. Or… maybe you already do, and this would be the final thing to make you… to make you give up and… and leave, and I thought, no, I don’t… I don’t want you to leave. Yuuri, I don’t want you to leave.”_

_Yuuri’s heart has sunk to his stomach, his thoughts battling each other, a mix of shocked disbelief and choking sadness._

_How was it possible for Viktor to actually believe that? To believe that Yuuri would ever leave him?!_

_The very notion seems impossible to Yuuri, and yet, Viktor’s just told him exactly that. Has just confessed to being so afraid of the possibility, that he’d tried hiding from Yuuri his struggles with depression, as if Yuuri would somehow hold against him something he had no control or say over. Something Yuuri himself could empathize with all too well._

_God… _

_He’d known Viktor had insecurities. It had become obvious to him, over this last year. Viktor wasn’t the untouchable god Yuuri had built him into during his youth. He wasn’t perfect. But to hear him talk about himself like this… to hear him say he was too much, that he wore on people… Yuuri has no idea where any of this is coming from, and it scares him._

_“Viktor…” he reaches out, taking hold of Viktor’s face in his hands. “Baby, look at me. You aren’t too much. Whoever told you that, whoever made you feel like that, they’re an idiot, and they’re wrong. Alright? You aren’t too much. And Viktor, if anyone’s going to understand about dealing with mental problems, it’s me. You know how much I struggle with anxiety. I’m not going to condemn you for dealing with depression.”_

_“But… when I’m like this, it’s terrible. Yuuri, it’s terrible.”_

_ “Okay, it’s terrible.” Yuuri says. “And we’ll work through it. Vitya, it’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.”_

_Viktor looks at him then with so much desperate hope in his eyes, it’s all Yuuri can do to keep his own tears at bay. He reaches out, pulling Viktor back into a hug._

_Viktor clings to him, pressing his face again to Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri holds on, pressing kisses to the crown of his head, telling him again and again it’s alright. It’s alright._

Except it hadn’t really _been_ alright.

Viktor’s depression had only grown worse over the course of the day.

By early evening, after Yuuri had come back from the rink, he’d found Viktor still in bed, and nearly mute, barely answering when asked how he was, saying nothing when Yuuri had offered to make them some dinner.

He’d been lying there, Makka pressed up against his side, and she’d whined at Yuuri, as if begging him to do something, to help Viktor, but Yuuri hadn’t known what to do.

He’d felt such an awful sense of panic and urgency, alarmed by the overwhelmingly lethargic, unresponsive state of Viktor, that he’d ended up calling Yakov, describing to Viktor’s coach what was going on, barely managing to keep himself from breaking into sobs.

Yakov hadn’t been surprised. He’d known, Yuuri had suspected, since that morning, when Yuuri had shown up to the rink alone, giving a half-hearted excuse for Viktor’s absence, and Yakov had looked at him with narrowed eyes, saying nothing.

“_He gets like this_.” Yakov had said, when Yuuri had finished describing what was going on. 

Yuuri had asked frantically what he should do, and Yakov had told him there wasn’t really anything he could do. That Viktor would come out of it in a few days.

“_He won’t eat or drink anything_!” Yuuri had blurted, panic clamping down tighter. “_I can’t get him to get out of bed. He’s barely talking to me_!”

There’d been a long pause on the other end of the line then, and finally he’d heard Yakov sigh, telling him he would be over in half an hour.

Yuuri had blubbered out his thanks, and when Yakov had finally shown up at their apartment, Yuuri had been unable to hold back his distress any longer, falling into the arms of the old coach and sobbing like a child.

Yakov had comforted him as best he could, stiff and unsure, but Yuuri had appreciated the effort anyway.

He’d appreciated even more when Yakov had gone into his and Viktor’s bedroom to talk to Viktor. Yuuri had stood back, keeping by the foot of the bed and keeping quiet as Yakov had bent down beside Viktor.

The old coach had reached out, placing a hand gently on Viktor’s shoulder, squeezing down.

“_Vitya…” he’d started softly. “_hey…”

Viktor’s eyes had shifted up, taking in Yakov’s presence, but he hadn’t said anything, continuing to lie there, listless and unresponsive, and Yuuri had watched the frown deepen across Yakov’s face.

“_It’s a bad one, then_?” Yakov had asked.

Viktor had blinked, and Yuuri had watched the tears gather and slip silent from his eyes as he gave a single nod.

Yakov had nodded back, bringing his hand up and resting it a moment to the crown of Viktor’s head.

“_Alright_.” Yakov had said, before pushing himself back to his feet.

He’d taken Yuuri by the arm then, pulling him quietly from the room.

Out in the hallway, closing the door behind them, he’d spoken in a low voice to Yuuri.

“_I’ll stay the night, if that’s alright with you_?” He’d asked, and Yuuri had nodded his accent quickly.

Yakov had studied him a long moment then, seemingly mulling something over in his mind before speaking again.

“… _He’s going to be like this for several days, most likely_.” He’d finally said, voice heavy. “_Maybe a week or so. It’s the middle of the season and he can’t afford to take that much time off, so… it’s going to be up to us to get him to the rink_.”

Yuuri had opened his mouth to protest, to argue that if Viktor was this depressed, there was no way he was going to be able to effectively train, either himself or as Yuuri’s coach, but Yakov had cut him off before he could speak.

“_It is best for Vitya, if he has something to do. It will help him, eventually. I know maybe it seems unkind, or… mean, but he needs to be forced. It will only become worse if he sits idle like this. You understand? Vitya’s mind can be cruel to him. Normally I would say let him be, he’ll come out of it on his own. But when it’s bad like this… he needs help_.”

Yakov hadn’t lied.

Viktor had stayed in a deep depression for eight days. Barely eating. Barely speaking. Barely leaving the bed except to use the bathroom, or when either Yuuri or Yakov forced him from the apartment, to the rink or gym. 

Yuuri had felt sick with fear the entire time, until finally, Viktor had come out of it, just in time for his next competition, back to his usual, upbeat self. 

Yuuri had spoken with Yakov during the awful, proceeding days. Had talked with him about Viktor’s depression. About maybe getting Viktor to see a doctor. A therapist. Yakov had said he’d tried convincing Viktor to do that in the past, but Viktor had always insisted he was fine. That he could handle it on his own.

Viktor had said the same thing to Yuuri when Yuuri had brought it up with him too.

He has a therapist now. A woman named Maria Shevnokova whom the hospital has appointed to treat Viktor for the duration of his stay here. She’s met with him maybe half a dozen times now, and Yuuri hopes it’s helping. He wants Viktor to continue to receive therapy once he’s out, but whether Viktor agrees to it or not, Yuuri doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to help Viktor all on his own, if Viktor decides against treatment. 

Already, Viktor was falling into spells of despondency. Nothing extreme yet. Nothing like that time when he’d first moved in with Viktor, here in St. Petersburg. But it was coming. Yuuri could tell. And he had every reason to fear it could even be worse, given what Viktor’s been through. Given what he’s lost. Just the fact Viktor was succumbing more easily to tears these days was warning enough. Yuuri had never seen him cry as much as he had these last, few weeks. Never seen Viktor seem so vulnerable.

He reaches out, carding his fingers gently through Viktor’s hair, Viktor continuing to sleep, a blessed moment of peace.

Yuuri stands, bending down and pressing his lips to Viktor’s cheek.

It doesn’t matter, he thinks. How bad it got. Doesn’t matter if he wasn’t enough, just on his own. Whatever Viktor decided, Yuuri would stand by him. Would support him. He wasn’t going to abandon Viktor. Not for anything. 

He would do his best, he decides. He would do everything in his power to get him and Viktor through this, the two of them together.

And he had to believe that would be enough.

He would make sure that it was.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my thanks to my readers! Please, if you have a moment, leave a review!

_The thing Yuri can't get over is Viktor's_ speed.

_The bastard's 29 years old, and he's fucking_ faster _than everyone here. As fast as he's ever been, it seems. His spins, his rotations in the air, the way he glides across the ice like wind resistance isn't even a thing that exists for him..._

_Yuri is fucking_ pissed.

_He'd been in second place after the short program. Yuuri in third. Fucking_ Viktor _in first. By almost six fucking points._

_Yuri had somehow convinced himself he could make it up in the free. And up until about two minutes ago, he believed that he had._

_He'd fucking_ killed _it in his free skate. Landed every quad, nailed his combos and spins. Everything had been perfect, and his score had reflected that, putting him well into the lead with two skaters to go._

_Unfuckingfortunately, those two skaters were the only two who could potentially_ beat _him. That being Viktor and his goody two shoes fiancé._

_Coming into this season, Yuri had doubted Viktor's ability to come back from taking the better part of a year off to coach Katsuki. _

_Those doubts had been affirmed when Viktor had just squeaked by to take third at the Russian Nationals that year, losing to him and, for the first time ever, Georgi._

_Of course, Viktor had had something like ten days to train and put together a completely new program before the competition. Had had to re-wear an old costume because there just wasn't time to get a new one commissioned. But Yuri hadn't bothered himself with those sorts of details at the time, too high on his win over the supposed living legend of men's figure skating. _

_He'd rubbed it in Viktor's face, gloating that Viktor was an old man who should have quit while he was still ahead, claiming that he was Russia's new king pin, and things would probably only get worse for Viktor from here on out. _

_Viktor had just smiled at him, and said “maybe”, in that infuriatingly calm, unbothered way he had about him, before telling Yuri he was “amazing”, and congratulating him on his “beautiful performances”. _

_God, Yuri swears sometimes he hates Viktor so much._

“You shouldn't antagonize him.” _Georgi had warned him later that night._

_Yuri had scoffed, rolling his eyes._

“Whatever. He knows he's washed up. And besides, he's asking for it, thinking he can take so much time off and still be able to compete with us. Only an arrogant asshole would think something like that.”

_Georgi had leveled him with such a serious look for a moment, that Yuri had felt himself pause, more accustomed to the older skaters absurd, melodramatic bullshit than anything else._

“Viktor isn't arrogant.” _He'd finally said._ “He's just the best and he knows that. He knows what he can do.”

_Again, Yuri had rolled his eyes._

“Was the best.” _He'd shot back._ “Now it's me. We saw that today.”

_Georgi had_ laughed, _and it had taken everything in Yuri not to punch him in his stupid fucking face._

“I guess we'll have to wait and see.” _He'd said, before turning his attention to someone else, not giving Yuri a chance to respond._

_So they'd waited. And Yuri beat Viktor again at Europeans, though Viktor had come in second that time, and Yuri had only beaten him by a measly 2 points. Still, he'd once more rubbed it in Viktor's face, and once more, Viktor had only smiled and congratulated him and didn't anything ever ruffle this fucking guy, Yuri had wondered angrily._

_Yuri had won World’s that year, by less than two points._

_He hasn’t beaten Viktor since._

_And now World’s has rolled around once more, and Viktor has perfected his routines. He’d lost to fucking Katsuki at 4 Continents, but just barely at that. Beaten both him and Katsuki at the GPF before that. Beaten Yuri at Europeans. Yuri should have known then. _

_Here they were at World's, again, and he was going to fucking do it,_ again. _Yuri can already tell._

_Maybe all those rumors about Viktor having sold his soul to the devil weren't so farfetched after all, he thinks._

_Viktor is a fucking beautiful skater._

_Understatement of the century, Yuri thinks, watching his rink mate glide across the ice with the most incredible step sequence he's ever seen._

_Even his costume looks amazing, and Yuri really doesn't understand how a fully-grown man can make such an androgynous outfit look so perfect. A see-through mesh top alternating with strips of solid black and white fabric, done up in glittering white and silver rhinestones, the same pattern following down along the inseam of his pants and wrapping around to his outer thighs. You can see his pale white skin through the mesh, contrasting the black, and his large hands covered by white gloves. It isn't gross on Viktor. It looks like it_ belongs.

_This is the only time Viktor is like this. On the ice, and he's the most elegant, graceful man in the world. Like something out of a God damned fairy tale. More akin to a myth than a human being. Like a beautiful and delicate fairy, or a flower, or..._

_Yuri scowls. He can't believe the ridiculous, fanciful thoughts which go through his head when he watches Viktor skate. He thinks it's because he can't think of any other way to describe the asshole._

_On the ice, Viktor has always been like a god..._

_And off the ice..._

_Viktor is the biggest fucking dork the world has ever seen._

_He's_ embarrassing. _Like, the kind of dweeb people make fun of in school and..._

_Those thoughts come screeching to an awful halt in Yuri's brain, his teeth clenching hard together as a wave of self-disgust consumes him for a moment._

_… No one's ever said it out loud, but Yuri knows. Like they all know. _

_It's an almost impossible picture to reconcile with what's in front of his eyes now, Yuri thinks. This kind of perfection on the ice, the supreme, unwavering confidence of a champion, of a man absolutely sure in his ability to be the best... because he is the best... a champion in his athletic prime... It's impossible to reconcile all of that with what the whole team knew._

_Viktor was that kid who'd been made fun of. He was that kid who'd been bullied... and beaten up... for being the way he was..._

_Yuri shoves the thoughts away. Presses down the anger at himself for the unkindness of his own thoughts. He refocuses on Viktor, and he can only stare in awe._

_Viktor goes into a quad Lutz out of seemingly nowhere. His transitions are fucking unbelievable; the complexity of his components into his jumps unmatched. He barely gives himself any time to prepare for the jump, to build speed or momentum, to the point you couldn’t even tell he was going to jump most of the time. Yuri has no idea how he does that. How the fuck does he do that?!_

_The height is insane, and for a moment, Yuri thinks he's gotten too much. Thinks he's going to possibly over rotate and blow the landing. But he doesn't. Four full rotations, tight and wicked quick. He drops back to the ice, checking the rotations, somehow. His free leg kicks out in such a perfect, graceful arc behind him. He refuses to drop it down, and he looks like he's floating, before suddenly he's into a series of outrageously hard spins, starting the second half of his program. _

_It's his fucking_ speed. _Yuri doesn't understand how someone so old can move so fast._

_Viktor's face is thick with emotion, etched in melancholy. Loneliness. It's this that puts Viktor's programs past the point of reachability for his competitors. His technical scores are already through the roof. His pcs scores are seemingly limitless. The intricacy and sheer number of his components. The perfection with which he executes. No one emotes on the ice better. No one can match him in the skill of his skating. Jesus._

_This is the part of his program, Yuri knows, which is meant to be about the time just before Viktor left for Japan. Before he found Katsuki. _

_Viktor had been ready to give this up for the pig. Had been ready to throw away_ this kind of talent, _just so he wouldn't be so alone anymore..._

_It's a decision Yuri still doesn't quite grasp. _

_Viktor has been the best figure skater in the world for essentially more than a decade now. That was unheard of. A feat which would probably never be again be duplicated. _

_Yuri himself dreams of someday achieving that level of dominance. That sureness that he'll be the one to win. Not just from himself, but from all his competitors. It's something Yuri thinks he wants more than anything in the world. _

_Why Viktor would be willing to throw that away, throw that feeling of being the best away, just so he could be with some guy... No, Yuri doesn't think he gets it at all. There was nothing like winning. No feeling like it in the world._

_Well, it's hardly like it matters now. Because Katsuki wasn't selfish enough to keep Viktor from the ice, though Yuri still doesn't know how the hell the old man is managing to coach the pig and still perform like this. But he is, and it's fucking shit up for all the rest of them._

_Yuri would never admit it out loud, but he'd been secretly overjoyed when Viktor had told him and Yakov he was coming back. _

_He'd thought, at the time, to compete against Viktor was an honor, even if Viktor wouldn't be as good as he'd once been._

_Fucking be careful what you wish for, Yuri thinks with frustration, watching as Viktor jumps into a sit spin. He's disgustingly graceful, his positions mind blowingly intricate and beautiful and Yuri wants to smash him in his stupid, handsome face. _

_Fucking_ Viktor.

_Yuri already knows he's lost with more than a minute left to go in Viktor's free skate. He's done with all his jumps, and it's just a bit of choreography left and..._

_Yuri's eyes feel like they're going to pop right the fuck out of his skull as Viktor launches into the air._

_A fucking_ quad axle!? _Five fucking quads, and the last one’s a fucking_ axle!? 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! _Yuri thinks, and he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling right now. Horror? Awe? A fucking quad_ axle!? _How… how_ even?! _Yuri had never seen anyone land it, not even in practice, for fuck’s sake! How was that even possible? When had Viktor learned to even do that?! Yuri hadn’t ever seen him practice it, unless… he was going to the rink at night, the fucking bastard. It was the only time he could have done it without anyone knowing._

_Viktor's got the biggest, shit eating grin on his face Yuri's ever seen as he comes out of the jump, perfect fucking form as always. The last minute of the routine is supposed to be about being with Katsuki. About Katsuki coming to live here, in Russia with him. It's so fucking gay, and Yuri rolls his eyes so hard it hurts._

_“You just have to break your own fucking world record, don't you Viktor!” He shouts across the boards. _

_There's no chance of Viktor hearing him anyway. _

_He hits his final pose, and the stadium explodes in a wave of ear shattering noise, hundreds and hundreds of plushie poodles and blue roses beginning to rain down on the ice._

_Yuri watches Viktor hold the pose for barely a full second. And then his knees give way from under him. He collapses to the ice, chest heaving with exertion, a shaking hand coming up, pressing against his heart as he gasps for breath. _

_Even from here, Yuri can see his face, covered in thick sweat._

_It's the first sign of what that performance has really cost Viktor. The first sign of the effort it actually took._

_While he'd been skating, it had looked as easy as breathing air._

_//_

_Viktor nearly collapses again at the boards, his legs noticeably wobbling as he'd skated his way over. He'd spent nearly a full minute just sitting there on the ice, on his knees, trying to get air into his lungs before he'd pushed himself with obvious effort to his feet again. _

_Yakov is there, reaching out and catching him before he can fall._

_He's breathing so hard, Yuri can hear the breath rattling inside his chest, and he's standing close enough now that he can see the exhaustion, clear and painful on Viktor's face._

_Fuck, he'd really killed himself out there. _

_He'd made it look so easy, Yuri hadn't even realized..._

_How the fuck had he skated that program the way he had when he was this tired?_

_“Idiot boy!” Yakov is scolding him. “You didn't need that last quad! I told you not to try the axle!”_

_Viktor doesn't answer. Yuri doesn't think he could, even if he wanted to._

_Yakov has his arm around his shoulders, practically carrying him as they stumble over to the kiss and cry._

_“Where's Yuuri?” Viktor manages to get out, his voice shaky and weak. _

_“In warm up.” Yakov tells him. “And before you ask, yes, he watched your performance. He embarrassed himself with how much he was cheering you on.”_

_For the first time since coming off the ice, Viktor smiles, his eyes bright and proud._

_“I need to see him off...” he starts._

_Yakov folds his arm over Viktor's shoulders, reaching out and taking hold of his skaters hand, squeezing tight._

_“Wait for your scores.” He tells him. “It's going to be a record.”_

_Yuri can hear the pride in Yakov's voice now. He can't blame him. Yuri, despite his frustration, can't help feeling a little proud too._

_Viktor was fucking incredible._

_“I did it Yakov!” Viktor manages, his breaths still coming short and labored. “Did you see? The axle!”_

_“I saw.” Yakov nods. “It was idiotic of you to put that in, when you’ve barely been landing it in practice. You could have hurt yourself.”_

_Yakov’s voice betrays his words though. Yuri can hear the awe behind it. That’s the only appropriate response he thinks. For how great Viktor is. There are no words._

“The scores, please...”

_The roar of the crowd is deafening._

_Yakov leaps up, a sharp bark of laughter escaping his throat._

_“Viktor Nikiforov has scored 227.36 for his Free Skate, for a combined total of 337.64. A new season's best, and a new Free and combined World Record. He is currently in 1st place.”_

_Viktor's smile is blinding bright as Yakov bends down, swallowing him up in a hug._

_Yuri stomps over._

_“Hey, old man...” he snaps._

_Viktor looks up at him, still grinning._

_“Yuri!” _

_Yuri sneers down at him a moment, before he punches Viktor in the shoulder, not very hard._

_“You did good out there. For an old man.” He admits, the words dragging out of his throat like gravel in the eyes._

_Viktor beams._

_“You too Yuri!” He exclaims happily. “Thank you!”_

_He jumps up, and Yuri has no time to react before Viktor's wrapped his arms around him, bending down and pressing his face to his shoulder._

_“Get off me, you dumb ass!” He squawks, and Viktor's arms just squeeze tighter for a moment before he finally lets go, ruffling Yuri's hair before skipping away to find Katsuki._

_“Asshole!” Yuri yells after him and doesn't even feel mad at the idiot at all._

“Chris!” Viktor calls, his voice high with excitement.

Yuri watches as Christoph comes striding down the hospital corridor, his arms already opening wide. He reaches their group in a matter of seconds, and he's kneeling down, wrapping Viktor up in a careful hug.

Viktor hugs him back as best he can with one arm still restricted by an unwieldy cast.

“Hello darling.” Chris greets quietly, and Yuri can already see the pained lines etching the older skaters features as he pulls back slightly and takes in Viktor's appearance.

This is Chris' first time seeing Viktor without the bandages covering his ruined eye, the blindness there obvious, and Yuri is quietly thankful that Chris manages to keep the smile plastered to his face, even as the hurt in his own eyes shows through.

Viktor must see it too, because he laughs and makes a joke.

“A bit like Frankenstein's monster, huh?”

Chris' own laugh is weak in reply, and he shakes his head.

“Nonsense darling. You're as gorgeous as ever.”

They've let Viktor out of his room today, letting Yuri and Katsuki take him around the hospital hallways. A kind of belated birthday present, since Viktor had had to spend his actual birthday getting poked and prodded and run through what seemed like a million different tests. By the end of it, Viktor had been too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Yakov hadn’t wanted to do anything too involved anyway, thinking it would be a bad idea to stress Viktor out with too much fanfare. Yuri had agreed, as had Katsuki, and so they’d ended up just buying an ice cream cake at a nearby bakery and spending the day with Viktor in his room, eating cake and watching television. Viktor had seemed more than happy with that. Still, there’d been tentative talk of doing something more for Viktor, once he was out of this place. He was 30 now. It seemed like kind of a big deal.

It won't be long, the doctors say, before Viktor can finally go home. 

Yuri's the one who's been pushing his wheelchair, with Katsuki walking at Viktor's side. Viktor was chatty with everyone, as usual, talking to whoever happened to be around, and Yuri still doesn't understand how he does it. How he can continue to still find it in him, this kind of friendliness, even positivity.

It's partially a front, Yuri knows that much. He's seen Viktor cry more times over the last month than he ever has in the entire ten years he's known him. And then there are the days where Viktor grows practically mute, refusing to say more than a few words to anyone. That isn't as strange. Viktor had always tended toward depression, to some extent. Days when his usual exuberance was noticeably muted, and he'd seem to be a million miles away, eyes distant and lost, his ever-present smile vanished into a blank expression. It had been such a jarring contrast, the first time Yuri had seen it. So much so, that he remembers being frightened by it, going up to Yakov and asking if Viktor was alright. Yakov, he remembers, had shaken his head and said simply “Vitya gets like this sometimes. It's best just to let him be.”, and that had been the end of it. Eventually, Yuri had grown accustomed to Viktor's off days. He always came out of them after a little while, back to his happy go lucky, excitable self.

It was only those off days were happening more frequently now. The depression manifesting in ways more obvious. 

Still, whether his engagement with people was just him pretending or not, Yuri still found himself amazed at his willingness to try. At his ability to put any energy into at all.

If it were him...

If it were him, Yuri doesn't even know what he would do.

He'd probably kill himself...

He dashes the thought out of his head immediately, sickened by himself for it. What kind of fucked up thing was that to think? Viktor had every reason to live. God damn it.

If anything happened to Viktor, if he even thought of hurting himself like that... Yuri feels momentarily nauseas, the fear churning in his gut, before he's pulled out of his spiraling thoughts by Chris' fervent voice.

“I see you're sporting some lovely stubble to match those silver locks of yours.”

Viktor grins at him.

“The nurses usually help me shave, but they haven't had the time today.”

“Oh, you should let it grow out. It's _very_ rugged.”

They'd known Chris was coming today, and Viktor had been excited. They'd been able to watch the European Championships on the television, and without Viktor or Yuri there to compete, Chris had easily taken the gold with an impressive 297.56. Yuri hadn’t been able to keep himself from feeling a pang of frustration at it. He knows he could have beaten that. Even with his damned growth spurts, which had been wreaking havoc on him since the start of the season, throwing his balance all off. He was 18, and taller than Katsuki. Almost as tall as Viktor now. Maybe a little more than an inch shorter. He wonders, whenever it is he finally stops growing, if he’ll be taller than Viktor even. That would be crazy. 

Viktor and Chris continue talking happily with each other for some minutes, before Chris pulls a box out from the bag he'd placed on the ground.

“I have something for you Viktor.” He declares. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”

“Oh, Chris, you shouldn't...” Viktor starts, only the smile on his face gives away how excited he is. Viktor always showed such ridiculous enthusiasm whenever he was given gifts. 

Yuri remembers once, when he'd first come to Yakov's rink to train under him, he'd made some lame ass friendship bracelet and given it to Viktor.

Viktor had gushed like it was the most amazing gift in the whole fucking world, and Yuri knows he still has the stupid thing to this day, seeing it displayed proudly on his and Katsuki's mantle every time he went over to their apartment. 

Chris shakes his head, holding the box over Viktor's knees.

“I want you to have it.” He says, before pulling the lid back.

Inside, prominently displayed, is Chris' gold medal from Europeans.

Viktor blinks down at it a long moment, saying nothing, and when Yuri looks up from having bent down to examine the medal himself, he sees the stunned, almost unhappy look on Viktor's face.

“Here,” Chris starts when it becomes evident Viktor isn't going to say anything, and he starts to remove the medal from the box, uncurling the ribbon. 

Viktor finally reacts when Chris moves to put the medal around his neck. He actually flinches back, eyes wide as they fix on Chris, and he shakes his head no, hard.

Chris stops, hesitating.

“... I can't, Chris...” Viktor starts. “It's yours.”

“And it should have been yours.” Chris says back, his voice deadly serious in a way Yuri had rarely ever heard it. 

“Christoph...” Viktor tries again.

Chris doesn't give him any more of a chance to protest, instead lifting the medal and looping the ribbon over Viktor's head, lowering the heavy prize gently against Viktor's chest. 

“There.” He smiles, pressing his palm over the medal, his other hand lifting, carding his fingers through Viktor's bangs, brushing them back off his forehead. “Now it's where it belongs.”

Yuri feels a sudden surge of gratitude towards Chris.

“He's right. The gold should have been yours Viktor.” He declares, taking Chris' side. “It would have been, if you'd have competed.”

Yuuri pipes up too, nodding, agreeing with Yuri and Chris.

“It looks right on you.” He says to Viktor, reaching out and cupping his palm against Viktor's crown. 

Viktor starts to cry. Silent tears which slip down his face.

“Now, none of that.” Chris starts, even as his own eyes grow misty, and he reaches forward, wiping the tears from Viktor's cheeks. “We don't let them win. Oui, mon cheri? We don't let them take from us what's ours.”

Viktor nods, seemingly too overcome to speak. He reaches up, grasping hold of Chris' hand over his chest, and Chris continues wiping the tears from his face.

“Fuck 'em, right mon cheri?” He smiles.

And Viktor laughs, a fragile sound shivering past his teeth.

“Tres beaucoup, mon amie. Tres beaucoup.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which we learn more about Chris and Viktor's past together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a massive thank you to all my readers! I adore each and every one of you and your comments give me life!

It had taken every ounce of Chris' self-control to not react when he'd seen Viktor's face. When he'd gotten close enough to see the scarred-up skin, splintering out around his right eye, and the faded color of the iris. What once had been the brightest shade of blue Chris had ever seen, the contrast made only all the more apparent against the unchanged left. Worse, still, the obvious fact that the eye was without focus. Without sight. It didn't shift anymore. It didn't see. 

He'd been warned about it by Yuuri. That warning still did little to prepare him, and he knows the shocked pain in his own eyes had shown through, despite forcing the smile to keep to his face.

Similar, he knows, to his unpreparedness when he'd first visited Viktor here in the hospital. To when Yuuri had called him little more than a month before, and told him what had happened.

The last time Chris had seen Viktor before that had been at the Cup of China, the absolute picture of health and happiness. 

Viktor had been unbelievable this season, continuing on from last, where he'd again won another, unprecedented 6th world title. That dominance had continued into their last competition together, Viktor easily taking gold. 

It had been years since Chris had seen him so motivated, and so inspired, his programs breathtaking in their beauty and power, and Chris had been filled with so much joy to see his best friend in the world finally find happiness. To at last see Viktor okay. More than okay. To see him happy, because of Yuuri. Because of the love he'd found with the younger man.

How this could have happened then... Chris won't ever, ever understand.

It was so _unfair_. 

After so many years of struggle. After so much loneliness and isolation and suffering under the scrutiny and disapproval of the very country he loved and called home... the very country he had brought so much glory and honor to... After so much cruelty endured from those who should have loved him, who should have been _kind_...

When Yuuri had called Chris and told him what had happened to Viktor, Chris had at first been unable to accept it. He hadn't believed it. And then he'd realized suddenly that Yuuri was sobbing, desperate, broken and helpless, and the reality had hit Chris like a fall of bricks, and he'd begun sobbing too. 

He must have wept bitterly for nearly an hour before he'd been able to calm himself enough to get online and purchase a plane ticket for that day to St. Petersburg. 

But no, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when at last he'd arrived at the hospital, nearly 24 hours later.

His best friend since he'd been 14 years old, lying there in a coma, his face beaten, swollen and bruised beyond recognition, bloody bandages covering half his head, arms and legs covered in thick plaster casts and raised up off the inclined hospital bed.

Viktor's chest had been bare, the gown they had him in pulled down to his waist, and the bruising had covered the entire expanse of skin, so black, Chris remembers thinking it had looked like the worst cases of frost bite he'd seen in those documentaries about mountain climbers in the Himalaya’s. The tips of his fingers and toes had matched, and that _had_ been frost bite, he'd been told, because Yuuri had found him out in the snow at past one in the morning, in the midst of Russian winter, robbed of his shoes and gloves and jacket. 

He'd been beaten with what the doctor's thought was a baseball bat. Left to die in the cold. 

Later, when Viktor had finally woken up, he'd said it was a group of four men. All he could remember clearly was that at first, there'd only been one, claiming to be a fan, and Viktor had stopped to sign an autograph for him. And then the man had said something awful to him. Had called him an ugly name which Chris knows Viktor had been called countless times in his young life, and then the other three had appeared, and they'd... they'd...

Chris tries to force the imagery from his mind.

All he can think, when he imagines it, is how scared Viktor must have been. How alone and afraid, and it makes him both so angry and so heartbroken that he doesn't know what to do. Makes him feel like he's going to choke to death on his own emotions.

Viktor had cried when he'd woken up, and Chris had come, and he'd just sat there, holding Viktor's hand, trying to help him, trying to offer words of encouragement that felt so damned empty and useless and meaningless. But Viktor had thanked him over and over like he'd performed some great miracle for coming to see him in the hospital. For taking the time for him at all.

Viktor was like that. He'd always been like that.

When he'd first met him properly, really met him and gotten to know him some, when he'd been 14 years old and competing for the first time in Juniors, Viktor competing his last year in that same division, Chris remembers thinking Viktor was _strange_.

He'd never met someone so... exuberant. 

Viktor had been a whirlwind of energy and positivity, smiling and laughing with total abandon, talking a mile a minute and showing real interest in seemingly _everything_.

At first, Chris had felt overwhelmed by it, and, if he was being honest with himself, a little put off. A little annoyed even. 

He remembers thinking that Viktor was a little too much. Remembers rolling his eyes at Viktor's enthusiasm when Viktor would look away from him, and then feeling bad about it after, when Viktor would turn back, beaming his great, big smile at him and asking Chris what he thought about this or that, asking a million and one questions about Chris's life. Who's your favorite band, what's your favorite color, what are your favorite books, what do you like best about figure skating. On and on and on.

Viktor was, despite his outgoing personality and intense friendliness, actually what Chris would consider socially awkward. He reminded Chris, in so many ways, of an over excited puppy, so filled up with energy and affection, that he had no idea what to do with it, or how to show it.

From watching Viktor's skating, Chris realized that he'd built up this image in his mind of Viktor as some ultra-suave, sophisticated, worldly young man. His skating, after all, had always been so unbelievably mature, so filled with incredible poise and emotion. So technically and artistically brilliant, even as a teenager.

So, he'd been a little shocked when, what he'd found instead was a boy who acted more like a young child than Chris could ever remember being _himself_. 

Viktor wasn't _cool_. He was sweet, and a little odd, and sometimes embarrassing. 

He hugged people without warning. Giant bear hugs, in which he would wrap his whole body around you and squeeze tight.

The first time he'd done so with Chris, hardly an hour after they'd really met for the first time, Chris had been so shocked, he'd just stood there, frozen and stiff, and when Viktor had pulled back, he'd smiled at Chris like the happiest child on earth, and declared that the two of them were going to be best friends. 

Eventually Chris had grown accustomed to Viktor's enthusiasm and affection, and realized after not so long that his new friend was probably just about the nicest person he had ever met.

That was Viktor. He was just so genuinely, heartbreakingly, almost tragically nice.

When they'd gotten to know each other well enough to start hanging out outside of skating competitions, meeting up in different cities and going out together, shopping, or sightseeing, or eating out at restaurants, it became clearer still how Viktor sort of didn't really... fit in.

Despite being younger by two years, Chris quickly learned that he was actually quite a bit more experienced than Viktor, and Viktor would more or less take his lead and let him dictate their schedule and activities. He would look at Chris with wide, wonder filled eyes and say things like “You're so cool Chris!”, or “How do you know so much!?” before exclaiming that Chris was amazing.

Chris had thought early on it must be at least partially because Viktor lived with his coach, and likely Yakov Feltsman and his wife had run a fairly strict household. There didn't seem much of a chance that they had just let Viktor run around willy nilly. Chris' own parents had always been pretty lenient, letting him more or less do what he wanted. And that was definitely a part of it. 

But there was something else. Some strange, indefinable aspect to Viktor that made him seem at once otherworldly and naive. An innocence to him that didn't so much have to do with experience as just his general outlook.

Viktor saw the good in things. Looked at the world like it was a beautiful, wonderous place, filled with so much potential and discovery. 

That fact was made only more remarkable because Viktor's life had been, as Chris would come to discover over the years, anything but easy, or ideal. Had, in many respects, been tragic in its hardness and suffering.

Chris would sometimes just watch Viktor, watch how he was, how he interacted with others, how much genuine joy and interest he found in everyday living and just meeting people, and he would marvel at how his best friend could be like this, still, after all this time, after all he had been through.

Anyone else, Chris thinks, would have grown bitter and resentful. He knows he would have, had he had Viktor's life.

Viktor was anything but bitter or resentful. One couldn't imagine a person more opposite. And it was amazing. Truly, undeniably amazing, that a person like Viktor could even exist.

That was being demonstrated again now to Chris, as he sat with Viktor and both Yuri's, back in Viktor's room.

Viktor had nearly died, beaten to within an inch of his life for being gay, and somehow, he hadn't lost any of the kindness that had always defined who he was, talking with all of them, with the nurses and doctors who came in and out, with the same, bright sweetness he'd always had, the same care and love and warmth. 

Still, Chris thinks, there's trauma now in Viktor that hadn't been there before. You could hardly miss it, just to look at him. 

Objectively, of course, Chris had known there would be something. Nobody could go through what Viktor had and remain unscathed. Remain even a little bit alright. But like everything else about this situation, Chris hadn't really been able to prepare for the fallout.

Viktor cries more easily now than he had before. Maybe you could put that down to the attack still being so fresh, barely having happened two months prior. But Chris thinks maybe it's all simply become too much for Viktor now. Too much pain. Too much sadness. He cries over kindness shown him. Like he had out in the hallway, when Chris had given him his gold medal. 

Viktor never would have cried over something like that before. He would have refused it more strongly than he had. He would have smiled and laughed and told Chris how ridiculous he was being. 

Now he cried, like he was overwhelmed by the realization that someone cared for him. Like he couldn't believe it, and the relief left him drowning.

Chris can't ignore the way Viktor flinches away at sudden, unexpected movements either. The brief flash of raw, naked fear in his eyes before he tries covering it quickly back up. Can't not see the way Viktor's hands shake now. The way he tries to keep them from it by curling them into tight fists in his lap and holding very still.

He learns that Viktor's only just begun speaking with a hospital therapist over the last two weeks, and that once he's released, he'll have to find someone new, if he decides that's something he wants.

Yuuri is trying to encourage it. 

He learns from Yuri that there haven't been any breaks yet in figuring out who the perpetrators of Viktor's beating are. Yuri tells him this outside of the room. He says Viktor grows visibly upset when it's spoken of around him. He says the police have come by several times to ask Viktor if he remembers anything else. Viktor tries, and he's remembered a few, sparse details here and there, but nothing that's enough to really narrow down any suspects. It always leaves him shaken and exhausted.

Chris can't help imagining if he had been there. Can't help wondering what he would have done. If it had been the two of them, not just Viktor alone, maybe they could have fought the bastards off. Maybe. Maybe the cowards wouldn't have been so bold, if Viktor hadn't been alone...

He knows it's pointless to think of it.

Viktor was likely to be permanently impacted by the beating he'd taken. Physically and mentally.

He probably wasn't going to be able to skate again. Not competitively, anyway. 

If he couldn't, Chris knows he's going to retire at the end of this season.

He'd thought seriously about simply quitting halfway through the current one, calling it a career. 

Viktor, of course, had been the one to talk him out of it.

“_You still have so much left to give, Chris_!” He'd said, and Chris had wondered at Viktor's capacity to care so much about others. His own career cut short. What had been a season of the greatest skating of his life, surely another Olympic gold and World title in his near future, probably more world records, all of that, robbed from him, and still he somehow found the ability to concern himself with Chris' own career. With Yuri's and Katsuki's too. He was so upset that the other two had forgone the rest of the season. He cried when he told Chris he was failing Yuuri, because he couldn't be out there on the ice with him, couldn't coach him because he was stuck here in the hospital. How he feared he wouldn't be able to ever coach Yuuri again, more fearful still that Yuuri would waste his talent waiting for Viktor to come back...

Chris had tried his best to comfort him. To reassure him. He didn't want to lie to Viktor, because Viktor had never lied to him. He doesn't know if Viktor will be able to make a comeback. But he thinks, if anyone could, it would be him. He'd made a life out of defying expectation, after all.

“Chris, you're up next!” Viktor announces from where he's lying in the hospital bed, playing Mortal Kombat with Yuri and Katsuki. “Maybe you'll do better than me! These two are kicking my butt!”

Chris smiles back at him.

“Don't worry darling, I'll avenge you!”

Yuri scoffs, landing the final blow to Viktor's character, executing a fatality.

They all watch as on screen Yuri's character rips Viktor's to shreds, blood and innards exploding everywhere.

Viktor stares wide eyed at the screen, and for a moment, Chris thinks maybe it's not such a good idea for him to be playing such a violent video game. 

But then Viktor laughs, light and joyous.

“That was so gross!” He says. “Chris! You have to help me! I don't know how to do any of this stuff!”

“Don't count on it, old man!” Yuri smirks triumphantly. “I've been trying to teach you for years! You've got no talent for it.”

“You're a bad teacher!” Viktor defends himself. “You get all growly when I mess up and take the controller away. How am I supposed to get better if you won't let me try!?”

“It's frustrating to watch you play!” Yuri counters back. “You suck so much! I know two year old’s who have more skills than you!”

“Hey, he's better than that!” Yuuri shoots, defending his man. “He beat me the other day!”

“Pff, you aren't fooling anyone Katsuki! We both know you let him win that one! Even then, you practically had to just _stand there_ and let him punch you until you died! You were _trying_ to lose and still kicking his ass!”

“Well, Yuri, now you're just being mean.” Chris declares, coming forward. He takes the controller from Viktor, who grins up at him happily. “I suppose I'll just have to act as the dashing hero and defend the honor of our beautiful prince. Prepare to have your own ass kicked, Plisetsky.”

Yuri laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world.

“You're on, Giacometti! Prepare to be humiliated!”

“This ought to be fun.” Yuuri leans in close, speaking softly into Viktor's ear. 

//

After a while, and after winning about half his matches against young Yuri (which truthfully, Chris feels rather proud of), Viktor had fallen asleep again, and Chris had offered to join Yuuri back at his and Viktor’s apartment while Yuri stayed behind at the hospital. Yakov was meant to show up and take over their shift sometime early in the evening.

Yuuri had happily agreed, and now the two of them found themselves sitting at the dining table in the apartment kitchen, eating some warmed-up leftovers that Yuuri had cooked for himself the night before.

Chris can’t help but notice the almost oppressive silence of the place, and it leaves an uneasy weight in the pit of his stomach. It seems so… empty without Viktor here. Somehow wrong. Even poor Makkachin was over there, lying on the couch, looking despondent and sad. Chris can’t blame her at all. She hadn’t been allowed to visit Viktor in the hospital, with their no-pets policies. Chris understands, given the risk of infection and all that. But still, it must have been horrible for Viktor and Makkachin to be separated like this, and for so long. For years, Chris knows, Makkachin had been Viktor’s only constant companion. He tries to cheer himself by thinking of how excited Makka will be when Viktor finally _does_ come home.

Viktor could light up any room with his presence. Without him here, knowing why he couldn’t be here, it left Chris feeling choked with grief.

Chris can’t really remember the number of times he’d spent entire weekends in this apartment, Viktor having invited him to stay, either during competitions, or simply to spend time together. Viktor would always pay for him to fly out from Switzerland to St. Petersburg, usually during the off season, and proceed to treat him to shopping sprees and high-end restaurants over the course of two or three days.

Viktor had always been ridiculously generous with his money like that. 

“_Buy whatever you like Chris_!” He would beam.

Chris had always felt just a little too guilty to allow Viktor to buy him anything _too_ expensive, even as he knew Viktor would buy him anything he chose without a moment’s hesitation.

Things like that worried Chris about Viktor. There were people in the world who wouldn’t feel any guilt at all about taking advantage of his friends giving nature.

It was one among many reasons Chris had felt such a palpable sense of relief, when Viktor had found Yuuri. Yuuri, on the surface, may have initially seemed like a wilting flower type, but over the course of the last few years, having really gotten to know the man, Chris had discovered Yuuri could be an absolute bulldog when he needed to be. 

Viktor had always had trouble saying no to people. He would stand around for hours after practice or a competition, singing autographs, taking selfies, talking to people all vying for his time and attention, despite himself being exhausted, physically and mentally. If he found himself cornered by a group of reporters, he would answer as many questions from them as he could, before eventually Yakov would have to swoop in and cut the interviews short.

Yuuri, exactly the opposite, never had any trouble simply blowing a group of screaming fans or reporters off, and he’d begun, not long after moving here to Russia, to do the same for Viktor, taking his fiancé by the arm and dragging him away from the endless demands and requests.

One time, even, after a competition last season, Chris remembers, he, Viktor and Yuuri had been standing together, celebrating their 1, 2, 3 finish. A reporter, some American, had found them, and had immediately started accosting Viktor with rude, personal questions, asking about his and Yuuri’s relationship, asking what it was like, being an openly gay man living in Russia, demanding to know how much longer Viktor thought his body could hold out, competing at the top level of a sport which more and more lately found itself being dominated by teenagers. The questions had come rapid fire, one after another, barely giving Viktor a chance to process one before another was thrown in his face. Viktor had frozen, staring at the reporter, stammering slightly over his words as he tried to answer. Chris had himself been about to step in and tell the reporter to go to hell. Only Yuuri had beaten him to it.

“_Are you blind? Can’t you see the gold medal around his neck_?!” He’d snapped, gesturing towards Viktor. “_As to the rest of your questions, it’s none of your damn business_!”

He’d taken Viktor by the hand then, telling him to come on, before pulling him away. Chris had followed, a giant grin plastered across his face, even as Viktor had looked vaguely dazed. 

“_You shouldn’t let them talk to you like that_.” Yuuri had told Viktor, once they’d gotten outside. “_You don’t have to be nice to jerks like that_.”

Chris had agreed wholeheartedly. Viktor was too nice for his own good sometimes. Kind to a fault. 

The irony isn’t lost on him, that it was that same kindness which had led to him stopping for those men, and getting beaten to within an inch of his life.

Chris tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about how ugly the world is, that such horrible things could happen to such good people.

“So, how are you holding up?” He asks, poking at the rice on his plate, glancing up at Yuuri, sat across from him.

Yuuri looks miserable, his face drawn and gaunt, a seemingly permanent frown tugging at the corners of his lips. The bags underneath his eyes look like bruises, they’re so heavy and dark. Like he hasn’t slept in months. Chris doubts he’s slept very much at all since all this happened.

Yuuri shrugs, poking at his own food. Neither of them has really eaten very much. 

“Okay, I guess.” He answers.

He doesn’t sound like he means it, and Chris’ heart aches for him. Poor Yuuri. Things were just starting to really take off for him in his career as a skater. His and Viktor’s relationship as student and coach had really been hitting its stride. Everything had been going so perfectly for the both of them. And now… Chris doesn’t know what’s going to happen, for either of them.

“That was really nice of you,” Yuuri starts, looking up at Chris, forcing a smile. “giving your medal to Viktor like that, I mean.” 

Chris shrugs himself now.

“It should have been his. He would have won, if he’d been able to compete.” 

“Well, I know it meant a lot to him either way.” Yuuri goes on, not disagreeing. “It was really sweet of you.”

A heavy silence falls between them. It’s difficult, being positive. Hard to act like anything’s alright when everything is wrong.

“Are you excited for Viktor to be coming home?” Chris tries. “It’s just a couple weeks now, isn’t it?”

Yuuri nods.

“Yeah. I mean… I’m really eager for him to come home…”

He pauses, voice trailing off, his brow furrowing, frown returning to his lips. It’s obvious he’s thinking about something. 

“… I just… I’m worried…” he finally finishes, sounding almost guilty.

Chris blinks.

“Worried?” He questions, confused. Uneasy at Yuuri’s tone. “About Viktor coming home?”

“Just… I mean… I’m afraid I won’t… that I won’t be able to take care of him… the way he needs…”

Ah. Chris thinks he understands now.

“You’ll be fine.” He tells Yuuri encouragingly. “You’ve been doing a great job so far.”

“But, I mean… I’ve never had to deal with this sort of thing before. On my own, I mean. I’ve never had to take care of someone who couldn’t… I mean, who was…”

Yuuri’s stumbling and stammering all over the place, the guilt Chris had heard a hint of before seeming to surge, lacing thick over Yuuri’s voice now.

“Someone who couldn’t take care of themselves?” Chris supplies gently.

Yuuri nods, his expression suddenly crestfallen, eyes over bright with threatening tears.

Chris reaches across the table, taking gentle hold of Yuuri’s hand, squeezing tightly.

“You’re stronger than you know Yuuri.” He says. “I don’t… I don’t think you’ve ever quite realized how much you’ve helped Viktor, since you’ve come into his life. Or in how many ways you’ve already been taking care of him, even before all this. He was really a mess, before he met you, you know.”

“He was?” Yuuri asks, and the tears in his eyes finally slip free, silent down his cheeks.

Chris smiles sadly, nodding.

“He was so lonely Yuuri. I used to try to help, of course. Try to get him to come out with me, socialize. Distract him from everything. But…” he shakes his head. “the last two years before you especially, he was just so listless and sad all the time. He smiled for the public, of course. Made sure to maintain his image, but, in private, he was miserable. It became harder and harder for me to convince to come out. He just wanted to stay holed up in this apartment here, only Makkachin for company. Most of the time he would have this vacant expression on his face, just kind of staring at nothing. He always looked like he wanted to cry, but it was worse, because it was almost like he _couldn’t_. Like he was just so worn down and sad, that he couldn’t even express it. Before meeting you, I hadn’t seen Viktor cry since he was maybe 18, 19 years old. He cries all the time now. It’s like you showed him it was okay, to let himself fall apart. I don’t think he knew that before. I don’t think he knew it was okay to be fragile, or to show when he was hurt. You made him feel safe enough to show those parts of himself Yuuri.”

Yuuri reaches up, wiping at his eyes.

“Thank you.” He whispers. “I don’t know, I mean, I never knew how much I was helping. I mean, Viktor always says how much I do, but I never knew.”

“It’s all true.” Chris promises. “You’ve helped him more than words can say. He’s happy because of you Yuuri. For the first time in maybe his entire life. You’ve given him so much joy.”

“Thank you for saying that.” Yuuri whispers again.

“So that’s how I know you’ll be fine Yuuri, when Viktor does finally come back here. Just rely on your instincts with him. Just be with him the same as you’ve always been. And you’ll be fine. You know how to take care of him better than anyone.”

Yuuri tells him thank you again, and he smiles at Chris, reaching over and placing his hand over Chris’ own, squeezing back.

They talk idly for a while after that, eventually coming around to skating, and what’s going on, on the circuit. Chris divulges all the latest gossip and silly rumors he’s picked up on, who’s dating who, who’s costumes have been giving them hell, and Yuuri nods along, only half-interested it seems.

“… What… what are people saying… about all this I mean? About Viktor?” He finally asks, voice hesitant and unsure, like he doesn’t know if he really wants to hear.

Chris frowns, thinking back on some of the chatter that’s been going around among the skaters and coaches and officials.

News of Viktor’s attack had spread like wildfire across the skating community. It took less than 24 hours after the news broke for everyone, it seemed, to know about it, and it had been all anyone seemed able to talk about for weeks and weeks, sometimes to the point Chris had had to remove himself from any kind of socialization. He couldn’t stand it, especially since everyone thought he had some sort of special insight, given his friendship with Viktor.

Reporters had hounded him for weeks for some kind of quote, something they could use as a soundbite, or whatever the hell it was they wanted. Chris had refused to speak to any of them.

For the most part, everyone in the community had been horrified and sympathetic. He’d even seen several skaters, both veterans of the sport and those new to the circuit, break down into tears when they’d learned what had happened, sobbing openly. He tells Yuuri this. It had been nice, at least, to see how many people cared about Viktor, and how much.

Chris doesn’t tell Yuuri about some of the conversations he’d overheard, mostly from officials, judges and ISU representatives, speculating that this was all some sort of publicity stunt on Viktor’s part, making accusations amongst themselves that Viktor had always been an attention whore, and that it was easily within his capability, to pull a stunt like this, to garner sympathy and attention. As if he needed any, when he’d been destroying the competition over this and last season. Biased bastards who had never liked Viktor for the attention he brought to the sport as an openly gay man. And especially, an openly gay man from Russia. It didn’t matter to these assholes that Viktor had single handedly risen the profile of figure skating from an obscure, niche sport to one spoken of nationally and internationally with an almost mainstream interest.

He doesn’t tell Yuuri about how some skaters, like JJ, had speculated that Viktor had faked the attack because he was scared of getting beaten, because he was “getting old”. Chris had felt such a heat of rage when he’d overheard it, his eyes burning, throat tight with suffocating anger. He’d gone up to JJ, unable to help himself. Gotten in the other skater’s face and told him viciously to shut the hell up, that he knew nothing at all about Viktor. That he had no right, no fucking right, to talk about him like that. Told JJ and the group around him that he’d gone to see Viktor after the attack. Had told them all the horror of it. That Viktor had been in a fight for his life. He told them all they should be fucking ashamed. They’d all stood gape-mouthed and stunned silent. Fucking good, Chris had thought. He hoped they hated themselves in that moment. None of them deserved to even mention Viktor’s name. They weren’t good enough to talk about him even.

JJ had muttered something under his breath then, he remembers. Something about how Viktor was lucky either way, because now the world wouldn’t have to see him lose on the ice. Chris had laughed then, asking JJ point blank when he’d ever come even close to defeating Viktor in competition. JJ had blubbered out some half-assed response, making this excuse and that for why he hadn’t ever come out on top against Viktor. Chris had just grinned at him, and said, blunt and simple, “_You haven’t ever beaten Viktor, because Viktor is better than you_.”

That had shut JJ right up, and anyone else who might have been thinking of agreeing with him and his absurd theories. 

He doesn’t tell Yuuri any of that. Yuuri had enough shit to deal with. He didn’t need to worry about what some ignorant, hateful assholes thought.

“… I’m thinking of retiring.” Yuuri says suddenly, and Chris feels himself stiffen, blinking back at Yuuri, a wave of shock rendering him momentarily silent.

“… Okay.” He finally manages. “How come?”

Yuuri shrugs.

“… I just don’t know what the point is, if Viktor can’t… I mean, if he can’t compete anymore, or… continue on as my coach. I don’t know how things are going to go, so I haven’t made a decision yet, but…”

Chris nods slowly, thinking.

“Have you told Viktor?”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“No. I know it’ll upset him if I do, and I don’t want to do that to him.”

“You’re right that it’ll upset him.” Chris agrees. “If you thought he was against my calling it quits, it won’t be anything compared to you doing the same.”

“I know.” Yuuri says miserably, like he doesn’t know what to do.

“He believes in you Yuuri. It’ll break his heart if you retire before winning any major competitions, or just trying.”

“I _know_.” Yuuri repeats, if possible sounding even more miserable.

Chris leans back in his seat, studying the other skater carefully a moment.

“Well, I won’t tell you what you should or shouldn’t do except to say that, whatever you want, that’s the choice you should make. If you really want to retire, then that’s your choice. You know I’m retiring after this season.”

Yuuri nods.

“You’ll need to talk about it with Viktor though. Eventually I think.”

Again Yuuri nods.

“I know. And I will. Just… not yet. I want to wait until we’ve got things situated here, and Viktor’s recovered more.”

Chris nods, understanding.

“Alright then. Hey, Yuuri?”

Yuuri looks up at him, and Chris smiles tightly.

“It’s going to be okay. Whatever happens. You and Viktor, you’ll be okay.”

Yuuri smiles back, the expression wavering. 

“I hope so Chris. I really hope so.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Viktor's therapist, and learn more about the psychological effects of what Viktor's going through...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everybody! Here, have a new chapter as a present! And thank you again for all your support!

He can feel the cold, hard burn of snow covered concrete against his knees. The crushing, choking bite of frozen metal links pulling tight against his throat, stinging hot bile against his tongue, the stink of it drifting up, and Viktor knows he’s going to die.

He knows he’s going to die. He feels scared beyond reasonable thought and he thinks, oh, what will happen to Yuuri now? What’s going to happen to him? This is going to hurt him. When he finds out Viktor’s died, it’s going to hurt him. Viktor doesn’t want to hurt Yuuri. He doesn’t want the last thing he ever does to hurt him. Oh God… Oh God… He doesn’t want to lose Yuuri. Not when he’s only just found him. And he thinks it’s unfair. It’s unfair, when he’s only just found him, and he was happy. He was really, truly happy, and now he’s going to die, and he only got a couple years, and that’s not fair. It’s not. It’s not.

He can’t breathe, and he can feel his eyes wide and bulging with terror as the chain wraps tighter, his hands useless and numb against the metal links, trying to pull them away, voices all around him, and he’s heard all this before. He’s heard these names before. Faggot. Queer. Cunt. Homo. Pervert.

It hurts. It always hurts, no matter how much he expects it. He’s glad Yuuri isn’t here to see this. Oh, he’s glad for that at least.

He wants to beg. He thinks he would, if he could speak. He would beg them to please, please let him go, and he feels ashamed of that. He feels ashamed of what a coward he is. Ashamed that he’s so scared, so afraid to die. He’s 29 years old, and he doesn’t want to die. He’s got Yuuri, and Yura and Yakov and Makkachin and he doesn’t, doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to leave them.

“Viktor?”

He’s pulled back to the surface by the sound of a woman’s voice, and reality comes rushing in around him. The present. The hospital room. The quiet, subdued calm of the place. The woman sitting beside him is the hospital appointed therapist. She’s been coming to see him twice a week while he’s been here, starting just last week. This is their fourth time talking. 

She’s kind. She smiles at him a lot, and he tries to smile back, even when he doesn’t feel like it. She treats him like he’s fragile, and he doesn’t really like that. But he guesses she’s right to. He feels fragile. Most days now. He feels like he’ll shatter into a million pieces. 

She’s looking at him with deep, concerned eyes, her mouth pulled into a vague, tight frown.

“Where were you just now?” She asks, and Viktor looks away.

He’s trying to be honest with her. He knows that’s the only way this sort of thing works. If you’re honest. The therapist can’t help if you don’t tell them the truth. It’s hard, though. He doesn’t like talking about things that make him sad. The more he talks about those things, the more he remembers all the reasons he has to feel that way. He wishes Yuuri were here. He wishes he could go home.

“… Thinking about the attack.” He tells her, because he needs to be honest. 

Thinking about it is maybe somewhat of a misdescription. He has moments where it feels like it’s happening, right then and there. Where he forgets where he really is. He can feel the bite of the freezing cold weather outside. Can hear their voices like they’re right there in his ear, laughing and ugly and hurting. Can feel the chain around his throat and the blow of the baseball bat. He won’t ever forget what that felt like, he thinks. Not ever. 

Viktor had suffered any number of painful injuries during the course of his career. Had experienced all the pain that went with those injuries, and just the general pain of a body which had been pushed to the extremes for more than 20 years. Twisted and sprained ankles. Sometimes awful knee and joint pain. A lower back which sometimes left him doubled over and unable to walk. The burning agony of five quads in a four and a half minute span on the ice, forcing himself through clean, sharp step sequences when his legs felt heavy as lead, his lungs ready to burst into flames.

None of it compared to what it had felt like when they’d taken that baseball bat to him. Oh, God… just thinking about it makes his eyes burn. Makes him feel like he’s going to burst into sobs, throat tightening with fear. 

He’d been sure he was going to die, when they’d landed that first blow across his back. The pain had been unreal. Indescribable. Like a brick wall had come crashing down on him, leaving him crushed and paralyzed. 

The therapist, Maria, she insisted on him calling her Maria, nods, her face lined with compassion.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

No, Viktor thinks. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to think about it at all. Not anymore. He wishes it would go away. He wishes he could forget. 

Only the blow to his head hadn’t robbed him of his memory. Just half his sight and hearing. 

Tears rise against his permission, filling his eyes, and he reaches up, wiping clumsily at his face.

“… I guess… I’ve been thinking… most people have an… an abstract view of violence, I guess.” He starts, the words coming slow and unwilling to his tongue. He forces them out anyway. “I think I did, before…”

He trails off. He hates saying it. He hates saying out loud what happened to him.

Maria reaches out, placing a gentle hand on his forearm, nodding, encouraging him to go on.

“… You don’t… really understand what it actually is until… until you experience it. Until someone really… really hits you. I keep remembering how much it hurt. I think I can feel it still, sometimes. I’ve been… been hit before. I mean, I used to get slapped around when I was younger. I’ve even taken some punches.” He pauses. He’d meant to smile at that part. To make it into a joke. Make his voice bright. He can’t though. He remembers all those times also. Remembers how bad it had felt. Not scared like he was sure he was going to die. Not like this last time. But maybe like he sometimes wished he could. Like it would be easier to be dead, than having to live with the shame…

“… It’s different when someone attacks you with a weapon.” Maria agrees. “… They meant to kill you.”

She says it bluntly, and Viktor barely swallows down the sob which lodges in his throat. He knows. He knows that. He’d seen it in their eyes. In the hate twisting their mouths. In the disgust of their voices as they’d looked at him and seen in him a perversion of nature. The hate. They’d hated him like he was the worst person on the planet, and he needed to die. He needed to not exist. He’d known they meant to kill him before they’d even lain a hand on him. Oh Jesus Christ, he’s never been so scared.

The doctors had told him he’d “discharged” during the attack. When he’d asked what that meant, they said he’d lost control of his bladder and bowls, a common occurrence, they said, during extremely stressful situations. As if what had happened hadn’t been humiliating enough. He doesn’t remember, at least. He doesn’t remember doing that. He doesn’t remember much, except the pain, and the fear.

He tells Maria that. He tells her how scared he’d been. He tells her that sometimes he still feels just as afraid. Like those men are going to come through the door to his room here and beat him to death. That he’s been thrown into a panic so many times in the middle of the night, when no one else is around, Yuuri or Yakov or Yura either having gone home, or asleep in the spare room they’ve set up for them here at the hospital. And he imagines those men coming through the door and…

“That’s normal.” Maria tells him. “Many people who have suffered a traumatic experience continue to suffer the effects of it long after the actual event had occurred. I’m sure you’ve heard the term post-traumatic stress disorder?”

Viktor nods. Of course, he’s heard of it. 

“That’s what I’m here to help with.” Maria goes on. “It’s normal for you to still be afraid of those men. But you’re safe here Viktor. You know that, right?”

Viktor _doesn’t_ know that. He doesn’t know what’s to stop them from coming here and finishing what they started, if they really had a mind to. Those men. The police couldn’t find them. He wasn’t any help either. He couldn’t remember their faces well enough to help.

“… They know I survived.” He says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Probably.” Maria answers. “But you’re safe in here Viktor. They can’t get you anymore.”

“… How do you know?” Viktor whispers, and he keeps his face turned away, embarrassed, ashamed of how frightened he must sound. 

“Because there are police crawling all over this hospital. And because the only people authorized to come into this wing of the hospital, let alone to your room, are your family and close friends, and of course your doctors and nurses. Nobody’s going to hurt you Viktor. You have my word on that.”

He wants to believe her. Logically, even, he knows she’s right. It doesn’t banish the fear though. He feels sick with it still, sometimes.

“… What about Yuuri? What if they…?” 

He can’t make himself say this out loud. He can’t let himself really imagine it. They couldn’t hurt Yuuri, oh… oh God, he couldn’t let that happen. No matter what, he couldn’t…

“Your fiancé is safe Viktor. Nothing’s going to happen to him either. Alright? You know the police are still searching for the men who attacked you. They haven’t given up.”

“… But they can’t find them.” Viktor says back, voice weak. He knows he’s being negative. He can’t help it. 

“Not yet. But they’re taking what happened very seriously.”

“… Okay.” 

He doesn’t want to dwell on it anymore. He doesn’t want to think about what it might mean if the police never catch the men. He doesn’t want to think about what it might mean if they do.

There’s a moment of tense silence. Maria is probably waiting for him to say something else. But he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Do you have any thoughts about going home?” She finally asks, and Viktor feels grateful at the change in subject. “I hear they’re looking at discharging you sometime in the next two weeks.”

“I want to go home.” Viktor says quickly, looking up at her. 

Maria smiles tightly at him.

“I’ll bet.” She says. “Anything in particular you’re looking forward to?”

“I miss Yuuri.” Viktor answers bluntly. He knows it’s stupid. Yuuri’s here at the hospital with him every day. But… he misses being home with Yuuri. He misses it just being the two of them, and Makkachin. Maria nods, wanting him to go on. “I… I miss having dinner with Yuuri, and Yura. I miss Yura coming over and spending the night with us. We watch movies together, and play video games. I’m terrible at them, but Yura doesn’t mind. Neither does Yuuri. They’re both a lot better than me.”

Maria’s smile softens.

“I’ll bet they miss being at home with you too. You boys will have a lot of catching up to do.”

Another silence, and Maria shifts in her seat.

“Is there anything that worries you, about going home?” She asks, and Viktor feels his heart stutter in his chest.

So many things. He feels scared, and he doesn’t really know why. 

He hesitates to answer, and again he feels Maria’s hand on his, squeezing gently.

“… I’m embarrassed.” He blurts without really meaning to. “I mean… I don’t…” 

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t know what he means. 

“It’s okay Viktor. Take your time.”

“… I don’t… I don’t want to make things harder… for everyone.” 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the blanket covering his broken legs and frowns. He can’t find the words. He doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling now.

“How is it you think you’ll make things harder for everyone Viktor?” Maria asks after a moment, voice gentle.

He shakes his head.

“… I’m… I can’t…” 

God, why is it so hard to find the words for this? 

“… I’ve already ruined so much.” He whispers, and the shame chokes his throat. “I’ve ruined their chances…”

“What do you mean?” Maria asks.

“… The Olympics are next year. Yuuri and Yura dropped out of the rest of the season. They… they could still get selected to their National Teams, but they say they don’t want to go.”

“And you think that’s your fault?”

Viktor fidgets with the sheets of his bed.

“They would be competing if it weren’t for me.”

“From what I understand, your friend and fiancé chose to withdraw from the rest of the season. Is that right?”

“But they… they wouldn’t have had to if… if I hadn’t allowed this to happen to me.” Viktor says, his voice wavering despite his best efforts to keep it steady. The more he thought of it, of what Yuuri and Yura were missing because of him, the more he hated himself. 

“Do you think what happened to you is your fault Viktor?” Maria asks, and her voice is soft, sympathetic. 

Tears form and fills Viktor’s eyes, and he lets them slip down his face. 

“Viktor?”

“I… I didn’t trust the first man. I…” he starts, then stops, memories flooding his head, making his stomach sick. “I knew he was dangerous. I could tell. But I still… and then… and Yuuri asked me not to go out, but I did anyway, because I never listen. And it hadn’t… I mean… it hadn’t happened in so long, I thought… I was safe…”

“What hadn’t happened in so long?” Maria asks, voice still so gentle. 

Viktor reaches up, wiping at his eyes.

“I hadn’t… gotten beaten up in so long.” He whispers. “Or even called names, because… because of my success, I guess. I started to think… but I was wrong, because I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have trusted that man. I knew I shouldn’t have, and I did anyway. And now I’m half blind and half deaf and I won’t ever be able to skate again, and I won’t be able to help Yuuri the way I should be able to. I don’t know why I’m like this. Why am I like this?”

Maria looks at him carefully a long moment, her eyes sharp and searching, and Viktor looks back, desperate for some kind of answer to a question he doesn’t even really understand.

“Do you mean, why do you trust people when you know you shouldn’t?” She asks finally.

Viktor swallows, nodding, more tears slipping down his cheeks. 

Maria smiles sadly.

“Maybe because you’re a good person Viktor.”

He can feel his face crumple, and he looks away, bringing his knuckles to his teeth and biting down, trying uselessly to stifle the sob which tries to break free.

“It isn’t a fault, looking for the good in people Viktor.” Maria says gently. “In fact, it’s a strength. One very few people have or are able to hold on to. Especially people who have experienced a lot of hardship, like you have. In my own opinion, I think your willingness to trust people, despite everything, is part of what makes you such an extraordinary person Viktor.”

Viktor shakes his head, his eyes squeezing shut. His heart is pounding too hard against his ribs, his breath shallow in his lungs.

“I’m an idiot.” He says, voice cracking.

“No, you’re not.” Maria says. “And what happened to you isn’t your fault. Viktor look at me a moment. Please?”

For a moment, he hesitates, before finally lifting his face to her.

“We must live in a truly awful world, if we fault people for being too kind.” She says softly. “Viktor, what happened to you isn’t your fault. It’s the fault of the men who hurt you. It’s their own ugliness which made them act, nothing you did. Nothing you are. You trusted that man because you wanted to. Because you look for the good in people. Because you want to believe people are good. If the world wants to blame you for that, then it’s the world that’s twisted. Not you. Do you believe me?”

“… I want to.” Viktor tells her, and his voice comes out a sob. He looks away again. He’s falling apart.

“Do you think your friends and family blame you for what happened?”

He shakes his head.

“No… No.”

“Do you think they blame you for their decision to not compete?”

“No, but…”

“But?”

“But just because they don’t think something doesn’t… doesn’t make it not true.” Viktor says.

Maria leans back in her seat.

“You said you don’t want to make things harder than you already have. Are you worried about Yuuri having to take care of you when you finally get home?”

Maria is observant. Viktor wishes she weren’t so much sometimes.

He nods. He doesn’t want to say it. He can’t even go to the bathroom without help. God.

“Do you really think Yuuri is going to resent you for that?”

“… No.” He admits, turning his face down. “He’s too kind.”

“So, then what do you think it is that has you worried about going home? If you know Yuuri isn’t going to be upset with you for having to take care of you?”

Memories flood in on Viktor again. Nights… so many nights spent alone. And with that loneliness, a deep, choking shame. 

He’d driven them all away, he knows. All the lovers he’d ever had. Once they’d found out he wasn’t whatever it is they’d imagined him to be. Once they’d seen what he actually was. The way he really was. Too much. Too much of everything.

“… Everyone I’ve ever been with…” he starts. Stops. He’s looked at himself in the mirror, in the past, and said it aloud to himself countless times. Saying it to someone else is harder. “I’ve never ended a relationship. They’ve all… left.”

It was the truth. Ugly and pitiful. Every one of them… they’d left, because Viktor was too much of everything. Too clingy. Too needy. Too energetic. Too talkative. Too affectionate. He was embarrassing and weird and made people uncomfortable. He tried not to be like this. He tried. But it was who he was, and in the end, he could never not be who he was. 

He told himself, every time it happened, every time he got dumped, that it was fine. He didn’t need anyone anyway. He was Viktor Nikiforov, after all. The world’s greatest figure skater. He didn’t need anyone.

It was one of his more unconvincing lies.

Maria looks at him with open surprise, and Viktor smiles at her, forced and weak.

“I know. Hard to believe, right?” He laughs, and the sound of it is brittle in his own ears. “Viktor Nikiforov, international playboy, can’t hold onto a boyfriend for longer than a few months.”

“You’ve been with Yuuri with almost two years though, isn’t that right?” Maria says.

Viktor looks away.

“Yes.”

Maria doesn’t say anything, and Viktor finds himself fidgeting again with the covers.

“… I keep thinking he’s going to realize the same thing about me everyone else has, and… when he does…”

“… What is it you think he’s going to find out?” Maria asks.

Viktor laughs despite himself, the sound bitter and weak.

“Just… that I’m not…”

Again Maria stays silent, and Viktor forces the words from his lips.

“Worth it…” he whispers, keeping his face away. 

“Okay.” Maria says carefully. “It makes sense you would have those fears, given your past experiences.” 

Viktor finds himself surprised that she hasn’t just dismissed his fears off hand. That’s what most people would do. Most people thought that people like him couldn’t have real problems. They thought whatever problems he might have must be… manufactured in some way. They thought that because he was relatively famous. Because he was an athlete. A world and Olympic champion. People tended to treat you like you weren’t really human, when you were successful at something. 

“Whether we want them to or not, our perception of ourselves is often shaped by how others treat us. I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries when I say people haven’t always treated you very well Viktor.”

He doesn’t answer her. He thinks the naked grief he can feel pass over his features for a moment is probably enough to let her know what he’s thinking.

“Your experiences tell you, you _should_ expect Yuuri to leave. But let me ask you this Viktor. What do your experiences _with_ Yuuri tell you? Has he ever done anything to make you think he didn’t want to be with you? Or that he was somehow unhappy with how or who you were?”

Yes, Viktor thinks without being able to stop it. In Barcelona, when Yuuri had told him they should end their relationship. Before that, even, when Viktor had first come to Hasetsu, and Yuuri had seemed to reject his advances at every turn, and Viktor had felt so confused and hurt, and he’s never told Yuuri about all the nights he’d spent alone in his room at Yu-Topia, crying into Makkachin’s fur because he didn’t understand why Yuuri hated him so much when he’d seemed so much to like him at the banquet.

Viktor had explanations now for Yuuri’s behavior. He knew logically that Yuuri had been just as confused and uncertain about Viktor’s feelings towards him, and that was why he’d been so distant. He’s been scared, the same as Viktor. All the pain that had bloomed between them in those first, few months had been nothing more than the results of bad communication. Viktor understood that. Like he understands now that being fearful of Yuuri’s feelings towards him makes no sense, because Yuuri had loved him from the start, the same as Viktor had loved him. They’d just had to learn how to better express that love to one another.

Logically, Viktor knows all of that. 

But logic had little to do with feelings. That was also something Viktor had learned long ago. 

He feels something missing in him. Some kind of deficiency which has always driven people away, because, after being around him for long enough, they sense it too. The emptiness in him. The lack of something worthwhile. 

He can’t stop himself from thinking that it’s only a matter of time, before Yuuri senses it too. And then he’ll be gone. He’ll leave, because… because Yuuri deserves better than what Viktor can give him. He deserves more.

“Viktor?”

“I know Yuuri loves me.” He says. “I know he would never do anything to hurt me. He doesn’t want to leave me.”

“Okay.” Maria says.

“I know that logically.”

“But you’re still scared he will.” Maria prompts, and Viktor nods. 

“And you’re scared that, by having to drop out of his competitive season to take care of you and help you through your recovery, it’s going to make him want to leave you?”

Another nod, and the thought of it, just the thought, makes his throat close up. Makes him feel like he’s drowning. God… God, he doesn’t want Yuuri to leave. He doesn’t want to be alone again. 

“Okay. It’s okay to have those kinds of fears Viktor. It’s normal, especially given what you’ve been through. It’s also okay to just take a deep breath and let the facts help you reign in that fear. Have you considered talking with Yuuri about any of this?”

Viktor forces himself to admit no, shaking his head.

“I… I don’t want to give him any more to worry about. He’s got enough stress.”

“Okay Viktor. And that’s understandable too. But, what about your own stress? Don’t you think it would be healthier to talk about these fears with your fiancé? Don’t you think it would make you feel less worried, at least about this particular fear?”

“I… I guess so.” Viktor whispers. 

“I think, and I know you don’t want to worry Yuuri, but Viktor, I think it might worry Yuuri more if you don’t talk to him and tell him what’s going on. What do you think?”

Viktor looks down, and he can feel fresh tears stinging at his eyes.

He wants to talk to Yuuri. He wants to hear Yuuri tell him he loves him, and isn’t going to leave him. But Yuuri must already be so anxious and stressed out about everything. He doesn’t want to end up causing Yuuri to have an anxiety attack. What will happen if he does, and Viktor won’t be able to help him? Oh, he doesn’t want to hurt Yuuri anymore.

“Viktor?”

“Maybe.” He answers. He doesn’t know what else to say. He knows Maria will just tell him it’s better to try than to continue letting himself be swallowed by doubt and fear. He knows that. He just… doesn’t want to make things worse than he already had.

“Okay, well… I want you to at least think about it. Alright Viktor?”

“Alright.”

“I’m afraid our time is up for now. But I’ll see you again on Sunday, and we can continue to talk about it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Maria reaches out and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. Viktor watches her stand. She smiles at him, and he tries smiling back. He doesn’t think it probably looks very convincing. He watches her turn and walk from the room.

He continues staring at the door for a while.

Yura was going to come by soon, he thinks. He’d left his PlayStation here, hooked up to the outdated television in the room. Maybe they could play some more games. He had some new one which was neat, which Viktor liked to watch Yura play. Some zombie game where you were in a police station. The graphics were amazing, though Viktor had to admit it scared him a little. Everything looked so real. Yura had asked him to try playing yesterday, and Viktor hadn’t really wanted to. It looked too hard, and just watching Yura play made him jump nearly out of his skin. Yura had insisted though, and so Viktor had tried. He’d died almost immediately. Yura had insisted he try again, and Viktor had dropped the controller when a zombie had appeared from around a corner and jumped on him, the device clattering to the floor. Viktor had seen the flash of annoyance which crossed Yura’s face as he’d bent to pick the controller up, and he’d been scared he’d broken it, apologizing over and over until Yura had told him it was fine, the controller wasn’t broken. 

Viktor hadn’t wanted to play the new game anymore after that, and Yura hadn’t made him. 

He’ll ask Yura about his skating too. He hopes the boy is continuing to practice at the rink at least. He doesn’t think Yuuri has been. 

Minutes wear on, and Viktor feels his eyes grow heavier. 

He doesn’t fight it.

He doesn’t know when it is he falls asleep. Only when he wakes up, the room is darker with the setting sun, and he sees Yura seated in the chair pressed into the corner, near the foot of his bed, his face lit by the light from his phone.

“Hi Yura.” He says, voice low and dry from sleep.

Yuri looks up at him. He smiles.

“Hey Viktor.” 

Viktor smiles back. Real this time. He’s happy he isn’t alone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lilia remembers, and pays a visit to Viktor in the hospital

_The first time Lilia meets Viktor, the boy is six years old._

_Yakov had spoken to her about the boy repeatedly over the last, several weeks, an excitement in his voice which Lilia doesn’t think she’s heard from him in several years._

_“This one’s special Lilia.” He had told her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this kind of talent.”_

_Lilia had been skeptical, and somewhat surprised._

_Yakov was known for the sparsity of his compliments. He expressed satisfaction with his skaters with usually nothing more than a single nod of the head, and a grunted out “good job”. _

_Watching the boy now, out there on the ice, Lilia can understand better her husband’s enthusiasm._

_She’ll always watch her dancers and skaters with a critical eye. That was, after all, her job, to help them improve. And there are a few things now she notes the boy needs to work on. His lines could certainly be better. Always better. But…_

_For a six year old boy, she has to admit to herself, he’s rather remarkable._

_He’s graceful in a way she would only expect from a much older child. Perhaps an eleven, twelve year old student with a good deal of experience and training. _

_Yakov had told her the boy had never received formal training before coming under his care, and Lilia finds that hard to believe. Yakov assures her it’s true, though._

_She watches the boy spin and jump and execute step sequences which he really shouldn’t be able to do._

_Just as noticeable, she thinks, is the wide eyed joy on the boy’s face. The open and happy grin stretching his lips. He loves it. He loves what he’s doing. That, Lilia thinks, bodes well for the child staying with it._

_There were more talented skaters lost to burn out than just about anything, she thinks._

_Yakov stands at the boards, calling out instructions. The boy follows them well, clearly understands what it is Yakov wants. That shows a good mind. He’s smart, and plainly has an innate grasp of the foundations of skating. Though Lilia observes a tendency in the child to ignore what Yakov is telling him too, when what he’s telling him is to not do something. Stubborn, then. That could be both a good thing, and bad._

_The thing, though, that takes Lilia most aback, is when Yakov at last tells the boy they were finished, calling him back to the boards._

_The boy skates back toward Yakov, fast and sure, and the moment he reaches the boards, he leaps across the barrier, practically running across the few feet of space separating him from Yakov before barreling into him, throwing his stick like arms around Yakov’s legs, hugging him tightly._

_Yakov stands stiff and bewildered, and Lilia watches as he awkwardly pats the boy’s head._

_The boy only hugs him tighter, pressing his face against Yakov’s thigh, almost desperate in his affection, and oh, Lilia thinks, the child is sensitive. _

_Something unpleasant and too much like fear uncurls in the pit of her stomach at the sight._

_“How was that!?” The boy asks excitedly when Yakov puts his hands on his thin shoulders, pushing him away gently, almost needing to pry him away for how tightly the child clings to him. He looks up at Yakov with wide, brilliant eyes, the smile to match. _

_Yakov nods._

_“Good.” He says. “You’re improving quickly.”_

_The boy laughs, jumping up and down and clapping his hands. _

_For a moment, Yakov looks as though he’s trying very hard not to smile._

_Lilia folds her arms. She keeps her expression flat, but she feels what could almost be called amazement. Yakov likes the boy, that’s plain. _

_“Viktor, I want you to meet someone.” Yakov says, laying a gentle hand against the boy’s shoulder, nudging him to turn and face Lilia._

_“This is my wife, Lilia. She’s a ballet dancer, and runs the conservatory a few blocks from the rink. Eventually I want you to start working with her.”_

_The boy, Viktor, looks up at Lilia, and the affectionate enthusiasm he’d shown to Yakov just seconds before seems to wither to dust. Suddenly, Viktor looks away, and Lilia watches as he visibly seems to shrink in on himself._

_“Say hello to her Viktor.” Yakov presses._

_“… H-hello.” Viktor says, voice so soft, Lilia barely hears him._

_He’s shy, she realizes._

_The abrupt change throws her a moment. Maybe it’s her. She knows she has this effect on people. She knows how she looks. And he was just a young child. _

_She forces a smile, reaching out a hand._

_“Hello Viktor.” _

_His tiny hand takes hold of hers, his grip weak. He glances up at her, before his eyes flit quickly away again._

_Yakov tells the boy to go back out on the ice and work on his crossover. Viktor promptly obeys, Lilia suspects to get away from her._

_It makes her forced smile suddenly more genuine._

_He’s a sweet child._

_“So, what do you think?”_

_Her husbands gruff voice pulls her from her thoughts, and she turns from watching Viktor._

_“He’s very good.” She answers bluntly._

_She sees the satisfaction in Yakov’s eyes._

_“Yes.” _

_“He could be great, I think, with proper training.” Lilia goes on, and the satisfaction intensifies._

_“Yes.” He says again._

_“When do you want him to begin with me?”_

_“A month. Perhaps two. We’re still focused on some basic technique which I want to work out before sending him for dance lessons.”_

_Lilia nods._

_“Very well.”_

_“Lilia…” _

_Yakov’s voice is unusually hesitant, and she looks at him expectantly when he doesn’t immediately continue._

_“… I’m teaching him without pay.”_

_Lilia stares back at him._

_“Alright.” She says after a moment, because she doesn’t know what else to say. Yakov sometimes gave free group classes to beginning and novice children, as a sort of charity. Maybe once every two or three months. _

_He never took on individual students for less than a considerably hefty fee. He certainly didn’t devote his personal attention to individual students who couldn’t pay. The boy Viktor was certainly talented, gifted, even, from what little Lilia had yet seen. And she knows Yakov hated to see wasted talent, but… _

_“Things are bad at home for him, I think.” Yakov goes on, his eyes moving back to Viktor, out on the ice. “His parents stopped paying about two months ago. The boy doesn’t know, of course.”_

_“I see.”_

_Yakov looks back to her, hearing the question in her tone._

_Why?_

_“He’s special Lilia. I can feel it. But he needs guidance.”_

_“He’s special enough to warrant training him without compensation?” _

_She doesn’t mean for the question to come out as harsh sounding as it does._

_Yakov, though, doesn’t seem deterred._

_“Yes.” He replies immediately. “He is. You haven’t seen what he can really do yet. If he’s this good after less than six months of training, then what will he be capable of in a year? In five, ten years? I don’t want to give up on this boy over something as stupid as money.”_

_Lilia sighs, moving her gaze back to Viktor. _

_He’s performing a series of relatively sophisticated spins, and again she thinks he really shouldn’t be able to. Not at his age. Not with his lack of training and experience. Yakov was rarely wrong about these things._

_“Alright.” She looks back to her husband. “If you really believe in this boy. Alright.”_

_For a moment, Yakov looks surprised, and she can see the relief in his eyes when at last he nods back._

_“Thank you Lilia.”_

_“Don’t thank me yet Yakov. The boy needs to pan out first.”_

_“He will.” He says._

_Lilia doesn’t think she’s ever heard her husband sound so sure of anything. _

_For both their sakes, and the sake of the child, she hopes he’s right._

_//_

_Viktor is a fascinating child._

_He’s a bad listener, but an incredibly hard worker. Willful and stubborn and determined, seeming to know what he wants in a way most adults even do not._

_He’s brilliant. Gifted in a way Lilia, in her more than 25 years of teaching, has never seen._

_He picks up on her lessons so quickly, is able to make his body do what she instructs with such ease and facility, that Lilia finds herself struggling with how to proceed with him. She doesn’t want to bring him along too swiftly, but… he’s advancing too quickly to keep him at the same, intermediate foundations a child his age would normally take a year or more to master. _

_Right now she has him working on his stretches._

_The boy doesn’t particularly enjoy it, she can see, but he also doesn’t complain. It’s strange in a child so young, to not complain. _

_She has to stop him from working too hard, every time he comes for lessons with her. His body is too young, still developing, and he’ll only injure himself if he pushes it too far. _

_The problem is unique, in her experience. She’s never had a six year old who wanted to work himself to a point beyond exhaustion. The irony being, he really doesn’t need to. His talent is great enough that he could afford a bit of slack. Viktor doesn’t seem to think so, though._

_If he can keep that work ethic up, he’ll be an Olympic and World champion, someday. She’s told Yakov as much. He of course agrees. _

_The danger is in the boy burning himself out before he can accomplish anything. Lilia prays that doesn’t happen. What a colossal waste it would be if he did._

_“Alright Viktor, that’s enough for today. Come, we’ll stop for some lunch, and then I’ll bring you back to the rink.”_

_The boy jumps up from where he’s been holding to his feet, his legs stretched out straight in front of him. He rockets towards her, throwing his arms around her legs, hugging her tight, the same as she’d seen him do to Yakov, the first day they’d met._

_Viktor had, in the months they’ve been working together, gotten over his shyness around her, and Lilia still hasn’t grown accustomed to the boy’s intensely affectionate nature. She pats his back awkwardly, and he pulls back, beaming up at her with wide, gleaming eyes._

_“Was I okay today?” He asks eagerly, and Lilia knows by now he’s asking the question seriously. He takes criticism well. Another unusual quality for a child his age. Most children want to be complimented and praised, even when they don’t deserve it. Most children throw a fit when you fail to do so. Viktor was different in so many ways. He learned, and strove towards constant improvement._

_Again, Lilia thinks, if the boy was able to stick with it, he would one day be a champion._

_The only question beyond that was how great a champion._

_“You did well.” Lilia offers, and that’s enough to make the boy beam brighter still._

_//_

_“I think Viktor is gay.”_

_She sees Yakov pause, his spoon held suspended halfway to his mouth, frame visibly stiffening. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, and Lilia watches him carefully. He knows, she thinks. He’s probably known as long as she has._

_Finally, he lowers his spoon back to the bowl, lifting his face to look at her._

_“He’s ten years old.” He says slowly._

_“Yes.”_

_“That’s too young to know one way or the other.”_

_Lilia levels him with a skeptical stare._

_Yakov sighs, lifting his arms, resting them on the table._

_He shakes his head._

_“Why do you think he’s gay?” He asks after a moment, and she sees the way his eyes cast down. He doesn’t want to hear this, she thinks. He doesn’t want to think about it. She can hardly blame him. It was terrible. A terrible thing. To be gay in this country. _

_It wasn’t as if she and Yakov hadn’t had gay students before. Very much more than half of his skaters and her dancers were so. It didn’t make the difficulty of it any less true. _

_“Just the way he is.” She answers after a pause. “The way he carries himself. The way he acts. He’s very sensitive.”_

_Yakov frowns, deep lines creasing along the corners of his lips. She watches his fingers curl into his palms._

_“It’s useless to speculate until we know for certain.” He answers. “There are straight men with feminine qualities.”_

_“That’s true.” Lilia agrees. “But I think the boy is gay.”_

_“And what if he is?” He looks up at her finally, his tone almost accusing._

_Yakov had grown protective of Viktor in a way Lilia doesn’t ever remember him being with another of his skaters. He cared deeply for the boy. It made sense. It was impossible, she thinks, not to like to Viktor. He was such a sweet child. _

_“Then we should be prepared, is all I’m saying. It won’t be easy for him, if he is.”_

_Yakov looks away, scoffing._

_“It hasn’t ever been easy for him.” He mutters._

_“We should just be ready.” Lilia repeats, returning her attention back to her dinner. “So we can help him. He’ll need our help Yakov. Alright?”_

_“… Alright.” _

_She doesn’t bring it up again._

_She doesn’t think she has to._

_//_

_Viktor is frightened._

_Lilia watches him as he moves through her and Yakov’s house as though terrified of his own shadow. Terrified of doing the wrong thing. Saying the wrong thing. Being the wrong thing. _

_He’s been this way ever since moving in here with them, more than two weeks ago._

_She watches him, and her heart aches horribly. _

_Viktor had never been a frightened child. Shy, at times perhaps, but never frightened. Not of her or Yakov anyway. He was frightened of them now. Because of what his own mother and father had done to him, she thinks. He was frightened they would toss him out into the streets, because that was what his own mother and father had done to him._

_He’s quiet around her and her husband in a way he hasn’t been since the day they were first introduced. He keeps his eyes cast to the floor. He speaks quietly, and only after being spoken to. He says “Yes sir, and yes Ma’am”. He’s polite in a way which speaks only of fear._

_He’s wracked with nervousness even now. Lilia watches as his hands shake while doing something as mundane and simple as washing the dishes after a meal. She sees the plat he’s washing slip from his fingers, the porcelain dish shattering across the floor. _

_There’s a moment of thick silence following, Viktor staring down at the mess he’s made. His face is stricken, pale and gaunt and horrified, and Lilia thinks she needs to say something. She needs to act. But she stands as frozen as the boy, voice trapped in her throat, because she can see… she can see what’s about to happen._

_Viktor’s eyes are huge, and in an instant filled with tears. His face changes, crumpling in naked dismay._

_“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He begins to blubber helplessly, and before Lilia can move, he’s dropped down to his knees, beginning to gather the sharp, dangerous shards with his bare hands. _

_Lilia snaps out of her paralyzed state, striding towards him. She reaches down, grasping him hard by the wrists and pulling his hands back, more harshly than she’d meant to. Viktor freezes, body tense and trembling. He looks up at her, and there are tears sliding down his cheeks._

_Lilia shakes her head._

_“Stop. You’re going to cut yourself.”_

_His face crumples, fingers loosening around the broken shards._

_“I’m sorry.” He says again, and his voice comes out broken as he begins to sob openly._

_Lilia sighs, confused and feeling, suddenly, overwhelmingly wrong footed. She wasn’t good with this sort of thing. The children she taught sometimes cried for the harshness of her lessons and the uncompromising nature of their training. She dealt with them the only reasonable way one could, by telling them to suck it up. Those that couldn’t were destined to wash out, either way._

_Viktor had never been like that. The boy was tough as steel when it came to his training. Never discouraged or dissuaded, even when Lilia or Yakov rode him hard over seemingly everything. It was why, beside Viktor’s immense talent, he had won silver at the Junior World Championships at the age of 13. Why he’d lost only to a boy four years his senior, and by less than three points. _

_Viktor had the mindset of a champion. He had the toughness of a champion._

_Lilia knew how to deal with children who broke under the pressure of their career. She does not know how to deal with a child breaking under the pressure of cruelty. _

_She’d known Viktor was gay when the boy had been ten years old. She’d known, even then, his life would be harder for it._

_She’d wondered, and worried, over what would happen, when the boy’s parents discovered it. Knew, likely, they would react as they had._

_Knowing all that, it had done nothing, still, to prepare her for seeing the consequences here, now, before her eyes. In the form of a terrified little boy who believed, because he’d been made to believe it, that what was happening to him was his fault._

_“What’s going on? What’s happened?” _

_Yakov has come in, standing in the doorway to their kitchen. His eyes fall over the scene, Viktor down on his knees, sobbing brokenly, Lilia bent at the waist, clutching to his thin wrists. The broken plat along the tiles. She looks up at him, shaking her head._

_“Can you get the broom and dust pan?” She asks instead of explaining._

_Yakov eyes her, seeming to struggle with what to do. Only after a moment, he decides, nodding, heading across the space to the pantry._

_Lilia takes the opportunity to coax the boy up to his feet._

_“Come Viktor, come sit over here.” _

_He lets her pull him up without protest, still crying pitifully, rambling out words of apology over and over, even as she tells him it’s alright._

_Yakov takes to sweeping up the broken shards without further question as Lilia guides Viktor to sit on one of the chairs at the dining table._

_He’s shaking still, his eyes cast down, unable to look at her._

_She takes his hands in hers, squeezing tightly._

_“Viktor, look at me.” She commands, and he does as he’s told, lifting his eyes to hers. She holds his gaze for long seconds, his eyes wet and startling in their blueness. He’s very handsome. Will become only more so, as he matures, she thinks. He has that, at least. _

_She inhales a deep breath, shaking her head._

_“You don’t need to be frightened of us. Either Yakov or myself. Do you understand?”_

_He stares back at her, and she can see the struggle in his gaze. His uncertainty. _

_“You have every reason to be doubtful. I understand this. Why should you trust us not to do to you what your own mother and father did, yes?”_

_He doesn’t say anything, but she can feel him stiffen in her hold._

_“But listen to me Viktor. Have Yakov or I ever done anything to harm you? To hurt you intentionally?”_

_Finally, she receives a reply, his head shaking no, eyes casting away again, as though ashamed._

_“Then I need you to trust us now. You needn’t be so worried all the time that you’re going to do something wrong. You have my word child, no matter what you do, neither of us is ever going to turn you out to the street. Do you understand?”_

_“… But, w-what if I…”_

_Lilia squeezes his hands again._

_“Nothing you do.” She repeats. “Viktor, you are a good boy. No matter what anyone has ever made you feel about yourself; no matter if anyone has ever made you feel to the contrary. You’ve done nothing wrong.”_

_“… Everyone says it’s wrong.” He whispers, and fresh tears well in his eyes. “The government even says…”_

_“To hell with the government.” Lilia cuts him off harshly. “And to hell with all those people that parrot back their hysterical propaganda. This country is the only one at fault in this Viktor. Not you. There’s nothing wrong with being a boy and loving another boy. There’s nothing wrong with being a girl and loving another girl. It’s a beautiful thing, when we find love. A rare and beautiful thing. What matter is it, if the person you love is the same sex as you? Hmm? Can you tell me?”_

_A long moment passes, before the boy breathes out an answer, barely audible._

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Yes. Because there is no reason. Thus no answer. Viktor, you are not the first student of ours to be gay, and you won’t be the last. It’s a perfectly natural thing. Perfectly normal. We won’t condemn you for it. Not ever.”_

_“Listen to her Vitya.” Yakov finally speaks, coming up to stand beside her. “She knows more than either of us.” _

_“… Yes Sir.” _

_“And no more of this Sir and Ma’am crap! You can call me coach if you want, but Yakov’s always been fine. Lilia too. You don’t need to act differently around us.”_

_“… O-okay.” The boy whispers, still keeping his gaze to the floor. “Can… can I be excused to my room please?”_

_They let him go._

_She and Yakov talk well into the night about the boy. About ways to help him adjust. _

_Time and patience, Lilia thinks, is the only way._

_Show the boy through example, again and again, that it was okay to trust them._

//

“Hello Vitya.”

She watches the boy’s face lift from where he’d been looking at something on his phone, and it takes a great deal of self-control to not openly react to his deadened eye.

Yakov had warned her about it. She’d come expecting as much, but… it does nothing to quell the hurt at seeing the reality of it. For, she thinks, how it serves as a reminder to what had happened to Viktor, more than simply the fact it mars his once perfectly handsome face.

He smiles at her, wide, heart shaped grin splitting his lips, and something awful lurches in her chest.

“Lilia!” 

She smiles tightly, stepping farther into the room.

He holds an arm out. The one not trapped in plaster and cradled to the boy’s chest in a sling.

She doesn’t hesitate, closing the rest of the distance in a few, short strides, bending down and putting her own arm around his shoulders. 

Viktor is the only person, she thinks, who she never hesitates to show this much affection towards. Something about him, always something about him, which made it the only natural greeting. 

It never felt awkward, like it did with other people, to hug Viktor, and be hugged in return.

That, in itself, would always be something of a miracle to Lilia. How at ease the boy always put her.

After a short moment, they pull apart. Viktor continues grasping to her hand, smiling up at her still, and he seems as much now like the little boy whom she and Yakov had taken in, all those years ago.

“How are you?” She asks gently.

It’s a ridiculous question, she thinks.

He’ll tell her he’s alright, because he doesn’t want her to worry. But he isn’t. She wonders, and it makes her ill with sadness to think, if he’ll ever, really be alright. If he’ll ever, truly find peace.

She thinks back to all those years ago. To the boy who’d been so afraid, because all he’d known in his life to then was rejection. Abandonment and cruelty. 

How had things changed for him?

When now, a grown man, he still found himself faced with that same cruelty?

Oh, God, Lilia thinks, had she and Yakov failed, somehow? Had they done wrong, in telling Viktor to be hopeful? In promising him a better, happier future? 

Lilia had thought, when she’d told Viktor as a child to disregard the hateful, ugly words people used against him, when she’d told him to be who he was, embrace who he was, be proud of who he was, that she’d been doing the right thing. A good thing. 

It should have been the right thing.

Viktor never should have felt the need to hide himself.

And yet… look to where it had led.

Look what had happened, because the boy hadn’t hidden himself, and so the worst of those rotten bastards had used it as their excuse to make him pay. 

Oh, poor, poor boy.

“I’m alright!” He tells her brightly, as she knew he would, and something wretched twists inside Lilia’s heart.

“How are you?” He asks in turn, and she knows he’s sincere in the question. As Viktor is sincere in all things. 

She smiles again, and wishes she could make it brighter.

“Busy. Frustrated.” She replies. “These children today have no discipline. They expect immediate results and throw ridiculous tantrums when they can’t perform a perfect pirouette within the first week of training.”

Viktor laughs, his one, good eye shining and filled with life. It throws his ruined eye into stark, awful relief, and Lilia has to look away a moment. 

“They’ll learn.” He promises, ever hopeful. Ever the optimist. She doesn’t know how he does it. “It takes at least a week and a half, in my experience.”

Lilia smirks.

“Well, Viktor, I’m not sure if anyone’s ever told you boy, but you were a definite exception.”

Remarkable child that he was, they weren’t even joking. Viktor had been able to execute things within the first few weeks of him beginning lessons with her that most of her students hadn’t been capable of executing after months and months of intensive training.

That was talent, pure and simple. You could never teach that. You could never learn that.

“If you say so, Madame.” His grin widens, somehow, and he laughs again, honest and open, and Lilia again wonders at him. After everything that’s happened, he can still laugh. 

They fall into easy conversation for a while. About the studio. About her newest students. Which of them is giving her the most trouble. Which of them shows the most promise. It’s still young Yura, she says. The boy is incredibly gifted, and Viktor nods and says he knows. There’s pride in his voice when he does. So much pride. 

He asks about the rink, and how things are going there. Asks if there’s any new skaters to take note of. There’s a few, she says. Mostly with the girls. Of the boys, less so. Again, young Yura is their focus and future. He’s the only one who shows the potential to take Viktor’s place as Russia’s top skater. That had been the long term plan, for the day Viktor finally chose to retire. The focus to shift to Yura, and what he might accomplish. That plan hadn’t been meant to begin for at least another year. Possibly two. Viktor had been performing at the peak of his abilities, these last two seasons…

And now…

Lilia shoves the thoughts away.

Viktor’s fiancé, Yuuri Katsuki, of course, is the other skater capable of becoming the biggest star in men’s figure skating. But Russia isn’t so interested in him, given his representation of Japan. Lilia doesn’t say this to Viktor. She knows it upsets him. 

“How are you coping?” She asks him bluntly after a while. “Your eye. And hearing.”

Viktor smiles again, but the expression is weak; strained at the edges.

“… Okay.” He says quietly. “It’s weird, trying to get used to it. I can’t really see or hear when someone’s to my right, so…” 

His voice trails off, and Lilia doesn’t miss the way his hands clench around the material of his blanket, knuckles turning white.

“It must put you somewhat on edge.” She points out.

“… A little, yeah.” He admits. “I… I mean, it would make it easier to sneak up on me now, I guess…”

Again he trails off, and he looks away from her, and Lilia can hear the fear in Viktor’s voice. The worry. Of course he would be, she thinks. After what was done to him, those men, and how it’s left him only more vulnerable… 

“I get a lot more headaches now too, so...” He says softly, voice dry and tired. “that’s fun.” He laughs, but the attempt is empty. 

Lilia frowns.

“I’m sorry Vitya.” She says softly, and she means it. She’s so, so sorry, for what happened to him. For this world. How ugly it is. 

It doesn’t deserve him, she thinks. It doesn’t deserve Viktor’s light.

“It’s alright.” He tells her.

It isn’t, but she doesn’t say that. She doesn’t need to upset him.

“You’re getting out of here soon?” She asks.

Yakov had said sometime this week, but hadn’t specified which day.

Viktor nods.

“Yeah, the… the day after tomorrow, actually.” He tells her. She doesn’t miss how he sounds almost nervous, and she frowns.

“It must be a relief.”

Again, Viktor nods, but he looks away from her now, and she knows he’s trying to hide.

“What’s wrong?” She asks.

“… Nothing, just…”

He trails off, and Lilia waits, her lips pursing as she forces herself to hold her tongue. Trying to force Viktor into talking has never worked, stubborn boy that he is.

“… It’s going to be hard, I know.” He finally says, his voice almost too soft to hear. 

“Of course.” Lilia nods, and Viktor looks back to her. “But you’ve always been strong Viktor.”

Viktor looks away again, his gaze fixing on the room’s far wall. He doesn’t say anything.

“Viktor, look at me.” 

He hesitates a moment, but does as she says quickly enough.

“What sort of person do you think it takes, to dominate a sport for more than a decade that typically finds its athletes lasting two or three years at most?”

Viktor stiffens at her statement, his lips parting slightly. She can see him swallow thickly several times, as though he’s trying to find the words to answer.

“I’ll tell you.” She says when he gives no reply. “It takes more than physical talent Viktor. It takes a mental fortitude that’s almost beyond human. Viktor, you always had the talent to be the best. But it was your power of will that kept you at the top. You never let anyone or anything lessen your belief in yourself. You need to approach the coming hardship with the same attitude. If you can do that, then you’ll be fine. I know you will, because you have the strength to overcome anything.”

Doubt lines Viktor’s features, and still he says nothing, turning his gaze from her again. 

“Do you not believe me?” Lilia asks.

“… No, it isn’t that.” 

“… Then?”

“I don’t know.” He finally answers. “… I don’t know.” He repeats. “I want to go home. It’s that things are going to be different… then from before.”

Lilia thinks she understands now.

“Different with Yuuri?” 

Viktor’s weak nod confirms it.

“Oh Vitya,” she sighs. “don’t you know how much that boy loves you? That isn’t going to change.”

“I… I know. I know that.” Viktor stammers out. “… I love him too. I love him so much…”

His voice wavers, cracking despite his plain effort to keep it steady, and Lilia feels her heart sink.

“Yuuri isn’t going to see you any differently Vitya. He’s not going to stop loving you because you’re hurt.”

“I know. I know. I’m such an idiot.” 

“You’re not. You’re just scared. What happened to you was horrible Viktor. There’s no shame in feeling frightened still.”

She watches his right hand twist in the covers of his bed, his mouth twisting is so much naked despair a moment, that it feels like her own breath has been stolen away, just to see it.

“… Thank you.” He strains out.

She reaches out, placing her hand against his forearm, encased in plaster.

“You’ll be alright. Both of you will.”

He reaches back, laying his hand over hers.

“Thank you.” He says again, and Lilia wishes there were more she could do.

Always wishes there were more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much as always to all my readers and reviewers! I'm sorry I wasn't able to get around to answering you guys last week, as it's been kind of hectic around here. But just know I treasure each and every comment and would love to hear from you again!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Viktor finally comes home...
> 
> Warning for this chapter includes some sexual content.

“So, they’re letting him out tomorrow?”

Yuuri nods, fidgeting with the straw of his drink.

“Yeah.”

“Well that’s great!” Phichit exclaims happily. “You must be excited.”

“I am.” Yuuri nods. “A little nervous. But I’m glad he’s coming home finally.”

Phichit regards him a moment. He’d skyped him about half an hour ago, just like he’d been doing at least twice a week since this whole thing had started, and Yuuri finds himself with a renewed appreciation for how good a friend he really is each time. 

Phichit had wanted to come to Russia the second he’d heard. Had wanted to fly all the way from Thailand. But Yuuri had insisted that it wasn’t necessary, reminding him that he was in the middle of a competitive season, and that his own Nationals were right around the corner, until his friend had reluctantly agreed.

“_As soon as the season ends, I’m coming._” He’d said it like a warning, and Yuuri had said of course.

“How is he anyway?” Phichit asks now, voice unusually subdued. 

Yuuri can still hear the way Phichit’s voice had broken up into heaving sobs when Yuuri had called him and told him what had happened to Viktor. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to express to his friend how much it had meant to him, to know how much he cared about Viktor and him both. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Phichit that openly upset about anything. 

“He’s doing alright.” Yuuri answers now. “He still can’t walk, obviously. But he’s recovering slowly.”

Phichit hums.

“And what about you? How’re you holding up?”

Yuuri opens his mouth to answer, but then pauses. He wants to be honest with Phichit. He owes his friend that much, anyway.

“… Okay.” He says. “It’s been tough. Viktor’s… he’s been really emotional lately. I don’t think he likes being so helpless, so it’s… I’m just trying to be there for him without smothering him. Ya know?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Phichit says. “I’m certain he appreciates everything Yuuri.”

“He does. It’s just…”

Phichit doesn’t interrupt him, even when he freezes again, and Yuuri appreciates his patience.

“… He’s fragile.” He finally breathes. “In… in a new way, I mean. He seems scared all the time now. Sometimes I catch him looking at me almost like… almost like he’s frightened of me or something. He’s got this look in his eye…”

“Yuuri, I don’t think he’s scared of you.” Phichit starts, reassuring.

“I… I don’t think he is either, it’s just… something’s bothering him. He won’t say. You know how he is. He never complains about anything, and getting him to admit when something’s wrong is almost impossible. He looks like he’s afraid of something I’m going to do or say.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“A little. But I don’t want to stress him out. He’s already dealing with so much.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment.

“I think you should talk to him Yuuri. He’s probably not saying anything because he’s got the same idea about you being stressed out. If he’s dealing with something, you’ve got to try and help him. Especially since you know he isn’t so great at helping himself.”

He’s right, Yuuri thinks.

Of course he is. 

He couldn’t let Viktor drown in whatever it was that was troubling him. It had been that sort of failure in communication which had led to all their problems early on. And with Viktor in the condition he was now, it could only lead to an even worse disaster.

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll talk to him once I get him home and we get settled.” He promises Phichit.

“That’s what I like to hear!” Phichit crows.

Yuuri smiles.

“And hey, Phichit?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks… For everything.”

“Hey man, that’s what friends are for!”

//

The day they finally let Viktor leave the hospital is pure chaos. 

Yuuri can feel his anxiety threatening to overtake him with each passing second of this total insanity. He thinks, more than anything, it’s his fear of what this is doing to Viktor that’s causing it to swell.

The process of discharging Viktor had taken literally all morning. Yakov and Yurio had come with him to be there, and there’d been so much paperwork to sign. To top it off, the doctors who’d cared for Viktor had given a list of instructions and of what to expect about a mile long, which they’d gone over with Yuuri most specifically. Then came the scheduling of follow up appointments, and a list of contacts including physical therapists they would need to contact. Eye and ear specialist, and psychiatrists, all of whom Yuuri knew he was going to have to choose and make arrangements with. After that, they’d needed to wait at the hospital pharmacy for the various prescriptions for Viktor, pain medication and oxygen tanks to help him breathe, his lungs still not at 100% capacity. They’d been tapering Viktor off of the morphine for the last week and had given him a prescription for some pain killer called Norco. Viktor seemed to be handling the pain alright, though there were times when the discomfort he was in was apparent, etched into deep lines along his face, even as he never said a word of complaint. Yuuri prayed, once they got home, that he would be able read when Viktor wasn’t doing well with the pain. He found himself wishing Viktor would just tell him when that was, but Viktor seemed reluctant, worried, like he thought it was some kind of imposition, to let others know when he was hurting. It left Yuuri feeling frustrated and worried, sometimes.

By the end of it all, he could see Viktor was starting to flag, slumped in his wheelchair, head hanging down as he struggled to stay awake. There were heavy, dark circles under his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, eyes irritated as Yuuri bent in front of him to slip on a pair of sunglasses. 

Yakov had come up to him a few minutes ago, speaking quietly into his ear that someone at the hospital must have tipped the press off that Viktor was getting out today, because there was a throng of reporters waiting outside the main entrance, ready to pounce. 

Yakov was pissed, and Yuuri felt similar anger. Why couldn’t they just leave them alone? 

“You okay?” He asks Viktor, once he’s got the sunglasses situated over his eyes.

Viktor nods weakly. He looks exhausted.

Yuuri smiles at him.

“We’ll be home soon.” He promises. “Makkachin can’t wait to see you.”

That draws a small smile from Viktor’s lips.

“Okay.” He says.

Yuuri slips a sock cap over Viktor’s head, tucking the strands of his silver hair up underneath it and pulling it down over his ears. His hair had grown longer since he’d been admitted here, and Yuuri wonders if Viktor wants to let it keep growing, or if he’ll want to get it cut soon. He’ll have to remember to ask.

It had been nearly impossible getting a coat onto Viktor, the cast and sling encasing his left arm leaving it stiff and immobile, and so Yuuri had opted with draping a thick blanket over his shoulders instead, wrapping it around him as best he could, as well as one to cover his lap and legs. Again because of the casts, Viktor wasn’t able to wear anything but shorts, pants just too difficult to fit over the bulky plaster. Luckily, they’d managed a pair of loose-fitting boots over Viktor’s feet, and anyway, Yakov’s car was already out front, waiting with the heat on, so hopefully they would only be exposed to the cold outside for a few, short minutes. 

“Alright, you ready to get out of here?” Yuuri stands straight, reaching down and pressing the palm of his hand to Viktor’s cheek.

Viktor leans into the touch, nodding.

“It’s fucked up out there.” Yurio says, coming up from behind him. “We’re gonna have to be quick.”

Viktor looks up at Yurio, his mouth a tight line.

“What’s going on?” He asks, confusion thick in his voice. 

Shit, Yuuri thinks.

“There’s press outside.” He says bluntly. There wasn’t any reason to lie about it. Not when Viktor was going to realize the truth in just a few minutes. “Someone told them you were being discharged today, I guess.”

“… Oh.” Viktor says flatly.

Yurio scowls.

“Don’t worry about them. Yakov’ll hold ‘em off.”

Yuuri reaches down, grasping hold of Viktor’s hand and squeezing.

“Are you okay?” 

Viktor nods. He smiles, but Yuuri can see the expression is forced.

“Just ignore them.” Yuuri tries, and again Viktor nods.

Yuuri had expected a lot of noise and people. He hadn’t expected this.

Yakov meets them at the entrance, his face red with naked anger, and it’s immediately obvious why.

Right outside the front doors, there must be at least thirty reporters and cameramen, all waiting for them. The moment they’re spotted, and there’s an awful push forward, followed by a cacophony of voices, shouting and demanding. 

Shit… shit, shit, shit… 

“Fucking bastards.” Yurio hisses.

Yuuri’s eyes drop to Viktor, seeing him sinking down in the chair, his entire form screaming reluctance. 

He reaches out, putting his hand on Viktor’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“It’s okay.” He says, even as he doesn’t really believe it.

“Come on.” Yakov is there, holding his arm out. “The car’s right at the curb. It’s just a few feet.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, nodding.

“Okay. Okay. Viktor, I’m gonna take you to the car. Don’t worry about them. Just ignore their questions, whatever they ask.”

“Okay.”

The noise and surge only grows more intense as they finally exit the hospital, the reporters and cameramen rushing forward, and in an instant, there are microphones and lenses pushed in their faces, and an unintelligible rush of voices, all shouting over one another in a frantic, confused din, blinding flashes filling the air as shutters go off, over and over and over again.

Yakov goes ahead of them, shouting back at the throng, telling them to get back, trying to clear a path for them.

Yuuri and Yurio stay with Viktor, trying vainly to shield him from the crush.

Yuuri can barely hear himself think in all this noise and madness, ducking his head as he tries to push Viktor’s chair forward. Yurio is snapping at whoever gets close, a string of profanity snarled viciously out. 

Yuuri can’t see Viktor’s face from behind him, but he can see the tense set of his shoulders. The way he presses back against the chair, like he’s trying to get away.

“_Viktor! Viktor, over here!” _

_“Viktor, how does it feel to be on the outside again?!”_

_“Viktor, will you make a statement!?”_

_“Viktor, do you think you’ll ever skate again!?_”

Yuuri can feel the anxiety building in his throat, turning sour and dark, turning to rage. 

Why won’t they leave Viktor alone?! Can’t they see they’re suffocating him!?

“Viktor! Hey! Hey Viktor!” One voice cuts through the others, sharp and insistent, and suddenly there’s a man in front of them, having pushed through the others, blocking their path to the car. 

“Get the fuck out of the way!” Yurio snaps.

The man ignores him.

“Viktor, what do you say to the rumors that this whole thing is just an elaborate PR stunt on your part?”

Yuuri feels himself stiffen.

The man shoves his microphone in Viktor’s face.

“Fuck off!” Yurio hisses, batting the mic away.

Viktor stares up at the man, seemingly stunned silent.

“W-what?” 

The man repeats the question, his voice blunt and unkind. Yuuri is overcome by the urge, suddenly, to rip the microphone from his hands and smash it on the ground.

“Wh-why would I… I don’t… I…” Viktor stammers, voice shaking.

“There are some saying you deliberately staged your own attack. That you hired a group of men to attack you.”

“… Why… why would I… I d-don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t understand…”

“They claim it’s a ruse, calculated to engender sympathy for the homosexual agenda. What do you say to such accusations?”

Yuuri’s vision goes red.

He reaches out without thinking, grabbing the microphone and tearing it away.

He barely registers the cries of protest from the reporter as he smashes the mic on the ground.

“Get the FUCK away from him!” He screams in the reporter’s face, reaching out again, putting a hand against his shoulder and shoving him back, hard.

The man loses his balance, falling, and Yuuri couldn’t give a shit less.

There’s cries and shouts all around them, and Yuuri’s had enough. 

He pushes Viktor’s chair forward, nearly running over the reporter he’d shoved, the man barely able to scramble out of the way in time. The rest of the throng stumbles back, away from them, and Yuuri thinks _good_. 

He’s never been one of those competitors who’s wanted to make his opponents fear him. He knows some athletes who are like that. Hell, Yurio was like that. But now, he can’t help the satisfaction he feels, seeing the shock and fear in the faces of the reporters as they back away, their persistent questions finally dying in their throats as they let them pass.

Yakov already has the car door open, and Yuuri knows Yurio and him will hold the reporters back long enough for him to get Viktor in the car.

“Yuuri…” Viktor’s voice cuts through Yuuri’s thoughts as he’s bent over, putting the brakes on the chair. He looks up, and sees Viktor staring down at him. 

“It’s okay Vitya.” He promises as he stands back up, reaching out and cupping Viktor’s cheek. “Come on.”

He picks Viktor up, careful not to jostle him. He can feel Viktor’s lost weight. It’s not surprising. He’s been confined to a bed for over two months now, unable to walk or run or do anything physical at all. The density of his muscles has wasted away already. He feels frail, and Yuuri sucks in a breath, holding it, forcing the stinging in his eyes back.

“Back the fuck up!” Yurio snarls at the reporters as a few of them dare to step closer.

Yuuri can hear them murmuring, saying who the hell knows what. He honestly doesn’t care at this point. Viktor’s arms loop around his neck, his face pressing against his shoulder, and Yuuri reaches up, cupping his hand against the back of Viktor’s head, careful as he bends to place him inside the car, onto the back seat. He tries to be as gentle as possible as he straps him in with the seatbelt, making sure not to fasten it too tightly against Viktor’s still sensitive ribs and collarbone. 

“How are you doing?” He asks, once he has Viktor safely strapped in. He reaches out, lifting Viktor’s glasses so he can see his eyes. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

Viktor stares back at him, eyes wide and too bright, shaking his head, and Yuuri adjusts his cap, pulling it down more over his ears, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“Yuuri, I want to go home.” He says when Yuuri pulls back, his voice hardly more than a whisper, trembling, and Yuuri feels his heart sink.

“I know baby. We’re going. We’re going now. Just hold on a second.”

Yakov’s already folded Viktor’s chair up and is putting it into the trunk of the car. Yuuri straightens, closing the back door.

“Thank you.” He tells Yakov as the old coach slams the lid of the trunk closed.

Yakov grunts out a wordless reply.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Yurio snaps. “These fucking reporters are insane!” 

Yuuri doesn’t need any more encouragement, nodding.

“You get in the front.” He tells Yurio. “I’m sitting in back with Viktor.”

Yurio doesn’t argue, the both of them moving around the car, getting in as quick as they’re able. Yakov’s already taken up the driver’s side.

“Everyone good?” He asks as he starts the engine.

“Yeah, just go.” Yurio says.

It’s a massive relief, when Yakov finally pulls away from the curb, leaving the mob of screaming voices and flashing camera’s behind.

For the first few minutes, the ride is filled up with Yurio’s constant, angry chatter from the front passenger seat, complaining bitterly about the reporter’s and their questions.

Yuuri is barely listening.

He keeps looking over at Viktor, huddled at the other end of the back seat. He’s facing away from Yuuri, his face turned towards the window. He’s taken his cap and sunglasses off, his forehead pressed up against the glass. He hasn’t said a word since they left the hospital.

“Viktor…” Yuuri starts finally. “are you…”

“Is that what they really think?” Viktor’s voice cuts him off, wavering and weak.

Yuuri blinks.

“What?”

Finally Viktor pulls away from the window, turning his face to look at him.

“Th-that I… that I let this happen to me? That I would want, or… I… I don’t know… what it is, what is… what they mean. I don’t understand. Why I would… why would they think I…”

He’s struggling, his accent thick and distorting the words, his English coming out broken. Yuuri reaches out, grasping hold of his hand, and he can feel him shaking.

“Viktor…”

“I don’t… don’t know… wh-what is it? What they mean, with their words. Yuuri? Why would they… why do they say those things?”

“They’re just trying to stir up headlines.” Yuuri squeezing his hand gently. “Don’t listen to anything they say Vitya. It’s all crap.”

He watches as Viktor’s eyes grow wet, and he can feel the burning behind his own.

He knows it’s not that easy. To just ignore what that reporter said. 

It was horrifying, and Yuuri had felt a sickening anger when the words had fallen from the man’s mouth. That there were people out there so filled with hate and cruelty, that they would push such an absurd, unkind notion, simply because they couldn’t accept a man being attracted to another man. 

He’d seen articles online, echoing what that reporter had said. Theories by radical, conservative journals, proposing some sort of conspiracy agenda. That Viktor had staged the attack to try and “spread the disease” of homosexuality, by garnering sympathy. It was fucking perverse.

He hadn’t said a word to Viktor. Viktor didn’t need to know about that shit. 

Why the hell did that reporter have to say what he did?!

God, hadn’t Viktor been through enough?! The more Yuuri allowed himself to think about it, the more furious and disgusted he felt. What the hell was wrong with this country? With the people in it?

“I didn’t want this…” Viktor says, voice trembling, and the tears in his eyes slip free, sliding down his cheeks. “Yuuri, I didn’t…”

“I know Vitya. I know.” 

“Don’t listen to those fucking bastards!” Yurio snaps in Russian, turning around in his seat to look at Viktor. “Viktor, don’t listen to them! They’re just a bunch of lying, dirty scumbags!”

Viktor nods like he wants to agree, but his face looks devastated, the tears coming thicker, pouring down his cheeks, and Yuuri can’t keep his own tears back at the harsh sob which breaks past Viktor’s lips, unable to muffle it.

It’s like a dam breaking, and in an instant, Viktor is sobbing openly, heaving, wracking sobs. He turns away from Yuuri, pressing his face to the window of the car like he’s trying to hide.

“Oh God, Viktor…” Yuuri’s heart shatters as he reaches out, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him back.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Viktor weeps as Yuuri presses his face against his shoulder, lifting a hand to cup the back of his fiancé’s head, holding him. 

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” 

“Shit, shit, Viktor, hey…” Yurio starts, and when Yuuri glances at him, he sees the younger skater’s own expression, stricken and lost. “Shit, did I…?”

Yuuri shakes his head at him.

Yakov keeps driving, silent through the whole thing, but Yuuri can see the tension in the line of his shoulders; the way his knuckles have turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

Viktor keeps apologizing over and over again, like he’s done something wrong by being upset at what that asshole reporter had said to him, and Yuuri holds onto him, trying in vain to calm him down.

This isn’t how today was supposed to go, God damn it. 

Today was supposed to be a celebration. Viktor was finally coming _home_. After all this time, and all this struggle. It was far from over. Yuuri knew that. But it was meant to be a first step. Something to really feel hopeful for. And now this, all because some idiot with no regard for anyone’s feelings, who only cared about getting a story, had decided to shit all over Viktor with depraved lies and cruel, baseless accusations. 

Yuuri feels a sudden, overwhelming swell of rage, and it’s a struggle to keep himself from going rigid around Viktor with it. He wishes powerfully that he’d done more than just shove that reporter down. God… God…

Why did so many horrible things keep happening? Why did Viktor have to keep suffering like this?

It doesn’t make sense, Yuuri thinks dismally. None of this makes any damn sense.

//

When finally they make it back and up to his and Viktor’s apartment, Yurio and Yakov following close behind, there’s at last a moment of real joy when the front door comes open and Makkachin, already sensing Viktor’s presence, comes barreling towards him.

Viktor yelps in delight as Makkachin jumps up, her big front paws landing on his lap, her tongue lolling out as she immediately starts in urgently licking his face.

Yuuri worries for a moment that she may unintentionally hurt Viktor in her enthusiasm, moving forward to stop her. But Viktor is giggling breathlessly, reaching out and scratching at her ears as he leans his head back, his eyes squeezed shut and mouth split in a wide grin.

It’s like all of the loneliness Makkachin’s felt in Viktor’s absence is at once being released. She’s missed him so much these past two months. 

“My beautiful girl, oh, my beautiful girl, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…” Viktor tells her, leaning forward to press kisses to her snout and face. “Oh, I love you so much!”

It’s not surprising, when fresh tears spring to Viktor’s eyes, and he buries his face against Makka’s neck, his fingers curling into her fur, desperate.

Yuuri feels his heart break, and he can’t bring himself to pull the two of them apart. Neither can Yurio or Yakov, it seems, the three of them standing, silent and watching, letting Viktor and Makkachin just be with each other for as long as they need.

Yuuri stays with the two of them, even as Yakov and Yurio eventually move farther into the apartment, Yakov announcing that he’ll get started on an early dinner.

Yuuri is grateful, and he calls his thanks out to the old coach.

Eventually, Makkachin’s enthusiasm tempers, and she plants her paws back on the floor, giving Viktor a respite, even as she continues to stick to his side like glue.

Yuuri takes the opportunity to get Viktor more comfortable, unwrapping the blankets from around his shoulders, and the one they’d used to drape over his legs. 

“You need the bathroom?” He asks quietly.

Viktor nods, his pale face still flushed from the cold outside, the tips of his ears painfully red looking. 

“Okay.” Yuuri nods, taking hold the handles of the wheelchair.

“We’re just going to use the bathroom.” He tells Yurio as they move past where he’s already seated himself on the couch. “Let Yakov know we’ll probably be a little while.”

Yurio waves a hand in acknowledgment, before going back to whatever he was looking at on his phone.

Makka wants to follow them into the bathroom, and Viktor wants to let her, but Yuuri puts his foot down.

“She’ll make this a lot more difficult Vitya.” He says gently. “It’s better if she stays out here. Don’t worry, okay? She isn’t going anywhere.”

Viktor accepts it, though not before pressing about a million kisses to Makka’s head, guilt etched into his features once Yuuri shuts the bathroom door, and they can hear Makka outside, scratching and whimpering to be let in.

“She’ll be alright.” Yuuri reassures.

It’s been getting easier, as they’ve fallen into a sort of routine, helping Viktor to use the bathroom. He doesn’t bother with trying to help Viktor to the toilet, simply picking him up bodily and carrying to it. 

Yuuri had, in the weeks leading up to Viktor’s return home, outfitted the bathroom with things to help. Balance bars for Viktor to hold onto while using the toilet, and in the shower, he’d put a bench that Viktor could sit on, and had a wand installed. 

As he’s tugging Viktor’s shorts down to his knees, it gives him an idea.

“Hey, you think you wanna try taking a shower before dinner?” He asks, laying his palm against Viktor’s cheek.

He knows it’s one of the things Viktor had been most anticipating, after more than two months in the hospital without being able to properly wash.

Viktor’s eyes seem to light up at the suggestion.

“Can I?” He asks, and Yuuri smiles at him.

“Of course. Is it okay if I get in there with you?” 

Viktor nods enthusiastically, and Yuuri grins.

“Okay.” He presses a kiss against Viktor’s crown.

He waits for Viktor to finish using the toilet and helps him undress afterward.

Yuuri tries to be as careful as possible, pulling the over-large t-shirt up over Viktor’s head and peeling it down over his arms before stripping his shorts and underway off the rest of the way, just as gentle and slow.

Viktor’s torso is still mottled with bruising in various stages of healing. It’s not nearly as bad as it had been in the beginning, but Yuuri still finds himself having a difficult time looking at it, for how it reminds him constantly of what had happened. The same with the new scars which mark once unblemished, porcelain skin, from where the doctor’s had had to cut Viktor open, scrambling and desperate to repair the damage done, because they’d hit him so hard, those men had hit Viktor so hard, his insides had broken apart.

God… he can’t think about this.

It’s difficult, too, seeing how much wight Viktor’s lost. He’s painfully thin right now, and Yuuri thinks he must have dropped a good 12 or 13 pounds since the attack, maybe more, his tight and powerful muscles wasted away from inactivity. His stomach is sunken in, concave, instead of the flat, defined abdominal muscles of before, his ribs showing too prominently, his arms and legs like sticks. 

Yuuri shoves the thoughts aside, focusing on stripping his own clothes off instead, before turning to start the water in the shower. He tests the temperature for a few minutes, and when he turns back, he catches Viktor staring at him intently. He can feel his own cheeks heat.

“What?” He asks, suddenly self-conscious.

He’d been keeping in shape. Still going for daily runs, sometimes doing gym work, when he wasn’t at the hospital with Viktor. He knew he still more or less was in the same condition he’d been in before… all of this. He hadn’t let himself get fat. 

Viktor blinks, and his gaze lifts to Yuuri’s face. He smiles.

“I haven’t seen you in so long.” He answers. “I almost forgot how beautiful you are Yuuri.” 

The heat in Yuuri’s cheeks intensifies, and he looks away, fighting down the urge to cover himself up. It was true, neither of them had seen each other fully naked in over two months. Hell, the last time they’d had sex was about two weeks before their last competitions. There just hadn’t been much time for it in between. And now…

“Come on.” Yuuri starts instead of acknowledging Viktor’s compliment, making his way back over to his fiancé and being careful as he lifts him back up into his arms. 

Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s shoulder as he carries him to the shower.

“I got this bench here for you to sit on,” he begins to explain as he gently lowers Viktor onto it. He doesn’t let go, keeping an arm looped around Viktor’s waist as he reaches for the wand, switching the spray to it.

Viktor exhales a shuttering breath as Yuuri begins washing him, letting the warn water cascade over his shoulders. Vitkor’s head droops slightly forward, his eyes slipping closed.

“That feel good?” Yuuri asks, bringing the spray up to wash over Viktor’s hair, running a hand through the strands, sweeping them back up off Viktor’s forehead.

Viktor nods, his eyes still closed.

“Yes… God…” he sighs, and Yuuri smiles.

Yuuri reaches for a bottle of shampoo, prying the cap open with his teeth and squirting some right on top of Viktor’s head.

“Keep your eyes closed.” He warns as he begins to massage the shampoo into Viktor’s strands, rinsing it as he goes along.

Viktor does, even as Yuuri finishes washing his hair and takes up a washcloth, beginning to run it along Viktor’s shoulders, down to his chest.

When he moves lower, to Viktor’s stomach, Viktor breaths out again, and it’s impossible for Yuuri not to notice what’s going on between his legs.

“Yuuri… oh God, c-can you…” 

Yuuri pauses, pulling the washcloth away.

“You want me to?” He asks, making certain.

Viktor nods, lifting his face to look at him.

“Please. I want… I j-just want to not think f-for a little while…” 

“Alright.” He agrees. “But you’ll tell me if it gets to be too much, right? If anything starts to hurt?”

Viktor nods, his face desperate.

That’s all Yuuri needs to hear as he nods. He gets down on his knees and leans closer, pressing a kiss to the skin between Viktor’s neck and shoulder, before reaching down between his legs and taking him into his hand.

Viktor’s breath catches in his throat, and a moment later, he’s got his own face pressed against Yuuri’s shoulder, his good arm coming up, bracing against the shower wall as Yuuri begins to move his hand up and down. 

Yuuri has an idea, bringing the wand up between Viktor’s legs and letting the warm water wash over his erection, even as he continues to pump him. It gets the result he wants, Viktor practically slumping against him, a low, drawn out moan slipping past his lips.

“Oh God, Yuuri…” he breathes.

Viktor is wet and slick now in Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri runs the pad of his thumb over the slit of his penis, teasing at first, and then another, firmer pass.

Viktor jerks in his grip, a high-pitched whimper breaking from his throat.

“You like that?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor whines out some reply against his shoulder, his face turning, cheek pressing down.

Yuuri can feel himself getting hard between his own legs, and he forces himself to ignore it. He wants to focus only on Viktor. It’s the only pleasure he’s had in months, God…

He runs his hand up and down Viktor’s penis, massaging his slit now and again, until Viktor is squirming against him, his moans growing louder, more constant, and Yuuri kisses and nips at his neck. 

It doesn’t take long. Maybe two or three minutes, before Viktor comes, a frail whimper the only sound he makes as he does. And then he’s laying against Yuuri’s chest, panting heavily, exhausted and worn. 

Yuuri brings his other hand up, resting it against Viktor’s head, combing his fingers gently through his hair.

“You okay?” He asks softly.

Viktor nods weakly against him.

“… Thank you.” He whispers after a while.

“Of course.” 

Yuuri presses a kiss to the top of Viktor’s head.

“… Yuuri, d-do you need…?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m alright.”

“But…”

“I’m alright Viktor. Besides, we’re expected out there.”

“O-okay.” Viktor agrees after a moment. “If… if you’re sure?”

Yuuri smiles at him, leaning in and pressing another kiss to his cheek.

“I’m sure. Come on, let’s get this finished up.”

//

Dinner is nice.

It’s quiet, and subdued. Yuuri wouldn’t call the mood celebratory. But maybe content? The day had started out so terribly, and Yuuri can see, through his smiling and exuberant chatter, the strain tugging at the corners of Viktor’s expression; the way his eyes at turns go distant and lost, his lips twitching, smile faltering, if only for a moment, and he’s probably thinking again of that horrible reporter, and the disgusting things he’d said. 

But Yuuri reaches out when he sees Viktor getting trapped in his own head, taking his hand and squeezing gently, and Viktor will look back at him, the smile returning, genuine and relieved.

It isn’t ideal maybe. Isn’t how they all hoped this day would go, but…

The four of them sit at the dining table, talking and laughing, and they’re together, and Yuuri doesn’t think he’d really grasped just how alone he’d been these past two months, without Viktor by his side, until this moment. 

This place which he and Viktor called home had become, on his own, nothing more than an empty, silent box to house him and Makkachin. 

Sitting here, watching Viktor by his side as he talks to Yakov and Yurio, not so subtly sneaking Makkachin pieces of food from his plate, and he’s reminded just how much he’s come to need this man. 

There’d been seemingly countless nights he’d spent here, in this apartment, with only Makkachin to share a bed with, in which Yuuri had cried himself to sleep, thinking of Viktor. Thinking of him, beaten and broken, lying alone too, back in that hospital room. Missing him so desperately, it felt sometimes like he couldn’t _breathe_.

Watching him now, seeing Viktor look back at him just as often, smiling, seeing him _here_, here with _him_… This is _real_, Yuuri realizes, and God, he doesn’t know how he’d survived here alone like he had these past weeks. 

Viktor meant everything to him. Everything. And he’d almost lost him. He’d almost…

“Hey, Katsuki, come help me clean up in the kitchen, will you?” Yurio’s voice pulls him from his unhappy thoughts, and when he looks up, he sees the younger man standing, his and Yakov’s empty plates gathered in his hands. He’s staring down at Yuuri intently, and Yuuri thinks he gets the message.

He nods, pushing back in his chair.

“Are you done eating Vitya?” He asks, frowning when he sees Viktor’s plate still more than half full.

Viktor nods up at him.

“I’m sorry, I can’t… I don’t feel very hungry tonight.”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“That’s alright. Here…” 

He reaches down, taking Viktor’s plate, along with his own. 

“You wanna sit on the couch with Makka and watch some TV while I help Yuri clean up?”

“… Okay.” Viktor agrees quietly.

Yakov is kind enough to handle getting Viktor situated on the couch, while Yuuri goes to join Yurio in the kitchen.

For a few minutes, neither of them says anything to each other, simply standing side by side at the sink, rinsing the plates idly as they listen to Yakov flip through the different channels.

Yuuri glances over at Yurio after a short time, and thinks again how quickly the kid has grown in just the past six months. Yurio is taller than him now, by almost an inch, and he’s starting to fill out, the promise of a powerful, muscular build in the wings, no longer sporting the Faye-like body of his mid-teens. Yuuri won’t be surprised if Yurio ends up taller than Viktor, at this rate. He’s already more thickly built, though Viktor’s always been slender, even as a grown man. No doubt, Yurio’s going to be a power-house skater, once he gets used to his new body. He was already a beast out there on the ice, and his stamina had improved hugely over the course of the season. There probably won’t be anyone who can beat him once he fully matures. Especially now, with Viktor being…

Yuuri grits his teeth, trying to shove the thoughts away, refocusing on the cup in his hand as he rinses it out.

“How is he?” 

He finally hears Yurio ask, his voice unusually quiet and careful. 

Yuuri frowns, keeping his eyes on his hands as he works.

He shrugs.

“Alright, I think. All things considered.”

Yurio doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“… That was fucking shitty what that asshole said to him.” He finally breathes. 

“Yeah, it was.” Yuuri agrees.

“You were badass out there though.” Yurio finally looks at him, and when Yuuri looks back, he sees the younger man grinning. “The way you shoved him on his ass.”

Yuuri can’t help smirking in return.

“I kinda wish I’d done more than just shove him.” He admits, and Yurio’s grin widens.

“He woulda’ deserved it.” He says, going back to washing.

A beat of silence passes between them.

“… It’s good… that he has you.” Yurio says after a moment, his voice softer still. “Vitya’s not always so good at taking care of himself. You know?”

“… I know.”

God, does Yuuri know.

His heart hurts, sometimes, just thinking of it. 

“… Listen, Yuuri,”

Yuuri glances up, blinking. 

It wasn’t often, Yurio calling him by his actual name.

“Yeah?” Yuuri asks, when it seems like Yurio hesitates.

“… I was thinking…” he starts, voice reluctant. Uncertain. And now he’s got Yuuri’s full attention. It wasn’t like the kid to be hesitant in speaking his opinion. “… I was thinking I could maybe stay here with you and Vitya for a while. I mean… I was thinking I could… move in with you, to… to help you take care of him.”

Yuuri stares at him, wondering for a moment if he’s heard right.

Yurio looks back at him, expression tight.

“I just mean, it’s… it’s going to be tough, I think, if it’s just you. He’s… I mean, Vitya… he’s in pretty bad shape still and… I just… I thought…”

Yuuri’s brain unfreezes from its shocked state, and before he knows it, he’s stepped forward, wrapping Yurio up in his arms, hugging him tight.

Yurio squawks, struggling, but only a little.

“Thank you.” Yuuri breathes. “Thank you Yuri.”

“… So that’s a yes, then?”

Yuuri nods.

“Yeah. That would… that would be so great.”

“… Can I bring my cat?”

Yuuri laughs.

“Of course.”

“… Alright then.” 

“… This means a lot to me Yuri. Really.” Yuuri finally lets the younger man go. He steps back, keeping his hands on his shoulders. “It’ll mean a lot to Viktor too.”

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the sap.” Yurio waves it off. “You two always get so touchy feely, blah!”

Yuuri laughs again, reaching up and rubbing at his eyes.

“I know.” He admits. 

And for the first time today, he thinks, he feels an actual sense of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so, so much to all my readers and reviewers! You guys are such a huge inspiration! Again my apologies for not replying to the reviews for last chapter! Things have still been pretty hectic, but I promise I'll try to get around to responding to your guys' comments! Thank you so much again and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Viktor has a nightmare, and he and Yuuri talk...

His first night back, and Viktor dreams.

He dreams he’s lying in bed. The room is dark, no source of light from anywhere. Somehow, he can still make out the line of Yuuri’s form, lying beside him, asleep and quiet. 

Viktor tries reaching out for him, but he can’t move, and out of the darkness of the room, there’s suddenly another form, looming and tall. Viktor can’t see who it is. Can only sense that they’re moving closer.

Again, he tries reaching out for Yuuri. Again, he can’t, and the form moves closer still, until it’s right at the foot of the bed. It stands there, still as death.

Viktor watches it with wide eyes, and there’s suddenly a sense of suffocating dread, choking his throat. He feels the form reach out, the entire shape of it seeming to fall over him and Yuuri, and the dread twists into panic.

“Yuuri!” He cries. But no sound comes.

There’s a voice from the form, heavy and black, his name dragging out in a sharp whisper.

Viktor tries to scream, and there’s a hand over his mouth, pressing, pressing, pressing. The form is over him now. Right over him. Its voice whispering against his ear. 

“_Viktor_…”

He jolts awake, wracked in agony and a profuse, cold sweat clinging to his skin. 

It takes only a moment for the churning nausea in the pit of his stomach to make itself known, his head dizzy, eyes blinking against the dark of their bedroom.

There’s a low moan trapped in his throat, the pain and sickness worsening with each waking moment passed, and he tries to sit up, the attempt pitiful and weak.

He’s going to throw up. He knows he is. Oh God…

Tears burn in the corners of his eyes when he realizes he can’t get up on his own, the nausea intensifying.

Makka is a warm weight against his hip, and she begins to stir at his repeated failures to push himself up. She whines up at him, and he reaches out, his fingers finding her fur, burying in it. The burning in his eyes turns wet, warm liquid escaping, slipping down over his temples, into his hair.

He needs to get up. He needs to. He’s going to vomit, and he can’t… can’t lie on his back like this if… he needs to get up.

He tries. 

The pain is dizzying. Unreal. 

He turns his head. Yuuri is asleep beside him, shoulder rising and falling in the steady rhythm of his breaths. He’s right there.

“Y-Yuuri…” Viktor tries calling his name. His voice comes out a cracked whisper. Too weak to wake him. “Yuuri…” he tries again. Tries to make his voice louder. But he can’t. He can’t. Oh God, it hurts so much…

A pitiful whimper slips past his dried lips, and he rolls himself to the side as he feels the acrid burn of bile, swirling in his gut, rushing suddenly up into his throat. 

He barely makes it onto his side before the vomit pushes past his teeth. It explodes out of him in an awful, stinking mess, half landing on the bed’s sheets, half all over his own chest. It’s gotten all over the oxygen tube hooked over his ears too, the sting of it burning in his nostrils.

He collapses, his cheek pressing into the gross, warm bile, too weak to lift himself up out of it.

Oh God, God…

He can hear Makka, snuffling and whining above him, her wet nose pressing against his ear, into the crook of his neck, and he begins to sob.

It’s pathetic and weak, but he can’t help it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows the pain killers must have worn off sometime during the night. But he can’t remember where they are now, and even if he could, he can’t make it up to get to them.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, crying, lying in his own sick. Makka keeps whining and pawing at him, and he wants to tell her he’s sorry. He’s so sorry.

“Viktor?”

The mattress shifts and dips behind him, and he feels a warm hand against his shoulder.

It forces a harsher sob from his throat.

“Oh God, Viktor, what’s wrong? Baby?”

There’s a click, and suddenly the room is flooded with light.

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut, and he wishes it would go dark again. He doesn’t want Yuuri to see. Oh God, he’s so ashamed…

“Oh, Vitya…”

He feels Yuuri’s weight disappear from the bed and can barely make out the soft pad of his footsteps as they come around to his side.

“I’m s-sorry.” He stammers out when he senses Yuuri in front of him. “I… I threw up.”

Yuuri’s hand presses against his forehead, sweeping back his sweaty hair.

“I know Vitya. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay though. He was disgusting. And he was ruining everything. He’d ruined the sheets. Woken Yuuri and Makkachin up. Ruined their night.

The smell of his vomit is making his stomach churn, and he thinks he’s going to be sick again. He doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want this to happen. 

“Viktor…”

He forces his eyes back open, feels a fresh stream of tears slip free, hot down his face, and sees Yuuri kneeled in front of him, his mouth turned into a severe frown, brow furrowed.

“Are you in pain?” He asks, and Viktor can’t help the pitiful whimper which breaks past his teeth.

“Y-yes.” He manages. “I… I woke up and… I think I was having a bad dream o-or something. I tried getting up. I tried Yuuri. But I couldn’t, and I… I c-couldn’t remember where the pain killers were. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

“Shhh, it’s okay Viktor. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s alright. They’re right here, on your bedside table. Remember?”

Yuuri’s hand moves to a small, plastic bottle sitting there on the nightstand, giving it a little shake.

“You’re supposed to be able to take one every four hours. We just didn’t time it right yesterday. We have to make sure you take one right before bed, so it doesn’t wear off so quickly while you’re sleeping. It’s my fault. I’m sorry baby.”

Viktor blinks at the bottle, and he remembers Yuuri saying something about that before they’d gone to sleep. Something about keeping the bottle next to the bed, so he could take one if he woke up in pain. Remembers Yuuri even leaving a water bottle on the nightstand. 

“… O-okay.” 

“Here.” Yuuri reaches out, hooking his hands into the pits of Viktor’s arms, lifting him to a sitting position, helping him to lean back against the bed’s headboard. It’s an almost overwhelming relief, to have his face pulled up out of his vomit, but he can feel his cheeks burning in shame as he glances down, and sees the smeared, lumpy remains of dinner mashed into the sheets, the other half in a disgusting stream down his chest. Oh, he must look so terrible. 

Yuuri must notice, but he doesn’t say anything, and Viktor nearly sobs again for how kind he is. 

“Open your mouth.” Yuuri pops the lid on the bottle of pain killers, dumping one out into his palm and holding it out. Viktor lets his lips part, and Yuuri drops the pill onto his tongue, before taking the bottle of water. “Lean your head back.” 

Yuuri is careful as he coaxes water into Viktor’s mouth, tilting the bottle slowly. It takes several mouthfuls for Viktor to be able to swallow the large pill, and somehow it only makes him feel more embarrassed.

The pill had half dissolved on his tongue in the process, and the bitter taste of medicinal powder has his stomach twisting again.

“Y-Yuuri, I th-think… I think I’m going to throw up again.” He starts weakly, his mouth filling with saliva. 

“… Okay. Shoot.” Yuuri starts after a moment. “Right now? Or do you think you can make it to the bathroom if I carry you?”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Then let’s not take any chances.”

Yuuri glances around, and after a moment he seems to make a decision, grabbing up the waist bin near the nightstand.

“Here, use this.”

He places the can on the bed, between Viktor’s knees, before gently unhooking the oxygen tube from around his ears, pulling it out of his nose.

Viktor thinks he should argue about the waist bin. He doesn’t want to soil anything else. He’s already made everything so filthy. But every moment that passes, he feels more and more sick, and he knows he doesn’t have time. He’s going to throw up again any second.

That’s what happens a moment later.

He wretches, and Yuuri holds the waist bin steady as Viktor leans over it, dry heaving a few times, before whatever is left in his stomach rushes up past his teeth, the same, awful burning in his throat, stinging in his nose as the bile forces its way out his nostrils again.

Viktor has always hated throwing up. The way it feels like he’s lost total control over himself. The way it burns and stings.

It used to happen to him when he’d been younger, sometimes before competitions, his nerves wreaking havoc on him, and he’d hole up in one of the rinks bathroom stalls, puking his guts out. It had been particularly bad the year he’d moved up to the Senior division, he remembers. Sometimes, he’d used to throw up from simply working too hard. Pushing his body past it’s limits and paying for it later. Yakov had used to always scold him for it, before eventually giving up, when he realized he couldn’t be dissuaded, no matter how sick he made himself.

Viktor remembers thinking he had to win, no matter what. He had to win. Because… because it was the only thing he was any good for. The only thing he could do right. He had to win, because if he didn’t, what reason would anyone have to care about him at all?

Sometimes, he still thinks that, and now he can’t even compete. Probably won’t ever be able to compete again, and he’s so scared. He’s so scared.

What’s going to happen when everyone realizes how useless he is when he can’t skate?

Yuuri’s hand is on his back, rubbing soothing circles into it.

“You alright?” He asks gently.

Viktor nods weakly, even though he feels anything but.

“You think that’s it, or do you still feel like you’re going to throw up some more?”

“I… I think that’s it.” He answers honestly. He doesn’t think there’s anything left in his stomach to throw up.

“I guess I should have waited to give you that pain pill.” Yuuri murmurs, and Viktor feels his eyes widen. He hadn’t even thought about that. He probably just threw that back up with everything else. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright. You can just take another one.” Yuuri smiles softly at him. “How about we get you cleaned up first though, huh?”

“… Okay.” Viktor blinks, and he wishes he could stop crying, more, hot tears rolling down his face. God, Yuuri must think he’s pathetic. Or, maybe not. Yuuri was too kind to think that way. Too good. He doesn’t deserve this man. He doesn’t.

Yuuri gets him lifted up out of the bed and into the wheelchair, and Viktor apologizes again and again for the mess he’s made. He feels horrified when he sees how his own vomit has smeared all over Yuuri’s arms and shirt, and Yuuri just smiles at him and tells him it’s alright. Viktor doesn’t think it’s alright at all.

There’s a tightness in his chest, the air not seeming to get to his lungs properly, his skin hot and awful. He feels disgusting, and weak. An unwanted and unneeded burden. His first night back here, and already he’s made a disaster of everything.

For a moment, he hates himself. He hates himself so much, and he wonders why Yuuri stays with him. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand.

Yuuri’s hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“It’s alright.” He says again softly, and Viktor bites his lip hard to keep from sobbing.

It’s ironic, Viktor thinks, as Yuuri gets his shirt and shorts off, taking a wet washcloth and beginning to clean his face, that things have ended up like this. 

Viktor had wanted to help Yuuri. He’d seen so much potential in him, and had thought, _this is what I can do_. Something good he could do. 

For a while, even, it seemed like he’d succeeded. Yuuri was just starting to really come into his own as a figure skater. Viktor had felt certain, after this current season, that Yuuri’s potential would finally be met, and from there, the sky was the limit. He knew Yuuri was going to go on to win title after title, break record after record. He’d been able to sense that kind of talent in him from the very beginning. It had only been a matter of getting Yuuri to believe in it himself. 

That had been what Viktor wanted, more than anything. He’d wanted to see Yuuri achieve his dreams. And Yuuri had started to finally believe those dreams possible.

Now, he was stuck here, cleaning vomit off of his invalid fiancé. Letting the season pass him by, because he was trapped. Because Viktor had trapped him, through his own stupidity and carelessness and selfishness. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _fair_. He’d wanted to help Yuuri achieve his dreams, and now, instead, he was robbing him of them. 

Why had he ever asked Yuuri to come here to Russia, anyway? He’d known what this country was like. What its attitude was towards homosexuality. He doesn’t know why he’d thought it would be okay, to expose Yuuri to that kind of hate and ignorance. And after today… after that reporter had said what he said… and Yuuri had heard all of it. Had had to listen to it…

Maybe… maybe he’d thought he could protect Yuuri from it, because he knew what it was like. Because he’d heard it and been exposed to it enough in his life. He knew how to guard against it.

He’d thought he did, anyway. 

He doesn’t think so anymore.

Was it because Russia had the best skating programs? He guesses that had been a part of it. He’d thought there was a greater chance for Yuuri to reach his full potential if he could experience the same training and rink culture he had, growing up. Had thought having Yakov there to guide him in his own attempts at coaching would help him to help Yuuri more. And it had, to some extent. But…

But they’d been fine in Hasetsu. They’d been doing good. Yuuri’s training had been going good, and Viktor had been doing alright as his coach, despite some big mistakes on his part, early on. They’d been _fine_.

He shouldn’t have ever brought Yuuri to Russia, he thinks miserably. He shouldn’t have exposed him to this place. He doesn’t want Yuuri to have to go through this. All of this.

“I’m just going to go change the sheets and get some new clothes for both of us. I’ll be right back. Don’t try to move or anything.” Yuuri tells him now.

Viktor’s sitting here in his wheelchair, almost naked, except for the underwear he has on. His skin is damp with sweat still, his hair the same. Yuuri’s cleaned the puke off of his face, at least. He still feels disgusting. He hopes Yuuri doesn’t feel repulsed by him. 

Viktor feels overcome suddenly by a desire to go back to Japan. It had been so nice there. Yuuri’s family had been so kind. Had accepted him from the start like he was one of their own. Like he _belonged_. Makkachin had loved the warmer weather, and the beach, and all of the lovely people. 

As Yuuri walks back into the bathroom, arms full of fresh sets of clothing, he can’t keep the words from spilling out of his mouth.

“Let’s go back to Japan.”

Yuuri stops, blinking down at him.

For a long moment, he says nothing, and Viktor can feel his own heart beating too hard against his aching ribs, too loud in his ears. He can’t read the look on Yuuri’s face. He has no idea what he’s thinking. A feeling of panic clamps down in the pit of his stomach. 

“… Okay. Viktor, where’s this coming from?” Yuuri finally says.

Viktor can feel his face growing hot, but it does nothing to stop the deluge of useless words which pour from his throat, a frantic sense of urgency suddenly choking him. An awful, blind desperation.

“Please, I… I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want… because I… I brought you here. It’s so awful, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Yuuri. I don’t want this. I don’t want this for you. Can’t we go back to Hasetsu? We… we were good there. We were, right? We don’t need to be here anymore. We… we never needed to be here.”

“Viktor, honey, slow down a minute.” Yuuri starts gently. He steps closer, kneeling down in front of him, reaching out and taking hold of his hand. “Is this because of what that reporter said?”

Viktor shakes his head, fresh tears welling in his eyes.

“No, it… it’s everything. Everything about this place. It… it’s hateful. It’s always been hateful. Why treat us like this? Because… because I’m gay? Like I could help it anyway. Yuuri, I don’t want them to hurt you too. I win so many medals for Russia. I win for them, and bring them prestige and glory. I do this for them. And then they say I’m spreading propaganda, and trying to poison people’s minds. Why? Because I got beaten up? People beat me up all the time, when I was younger. Yuuri, I never told you this. They beat me up and called me their stupid names, for the same reason. I didn’t… Yuuri, I didn’t want this to happen. I was stupid. People tell me, my whole life, they tell me I shouldn’t trust so easily. I don’t listen because… I don’t know. Because what kind of way is it to be, when you always have to be afraid, that people aren’t who they say they are? I never wanted to be like that. But I should have listened, I guess. But I didn’t… didn’t want this to happen, like they say. Yuuri, you know that?”

Yuuri’s face is lined in open grief, his eyes wet now.

“Of course. Oh, Vitya, of course I know that. Baby…”

“Let’s go back to Japan. We can be happy there Yuuri. We can be safe.”

“Viktor… I understand that…” Yuuri starts, his voice hesitant.

“Then we can go.” Viktor tries, desperate and hopeful, because they can leave if Yuuri says yes. They can leave now. 

“But don’t you think we should give it some more thought Viktor?” Yuuri says. “I know… I know things are bad. I know things have been terrible these last few months. But you have to remember hon, this is your home. This is where you grew up. Where all the people you know are. Yakov and Yuri. All your rink mates. I don’t… I don’t want you to make a decision that you might end up later regretting, just because you made it in a bad state.”

For a moment, it feels like all the air’s been punched out of Viktor’s lungs, a horrible mix of embarrassment and shock shooting through his veins.

He hadn’t expected Yuuri to say no. He doesn’t know what he’d expected, really. He feels suddenly like he’s done something wrong. Like he’s messed up in some humiliating, stupid way. 

He blinks at Yuuri, mind scrambling.

“B-but… but what about you Yuuri? Y-you moved away from your home. You moved away here. And before that, even, and… and I left Russia for those eight months…”

Yuuri smiles at him, the expression strained. Sad.

“That’s true. But Viktor, I moved away from home for different reasons. For my career, for one thing. And it was a decision I made entirely myself. Not because I was forced to, or… or because anyone made me feel unwelcomed. And… it’s just, you’re not in a great state right now Vitya. Physically, it’s… it’s going to be pretty tough for a while. You know, when I first moved away from home, to America, I really missed my family. It was really hard some days, just to cope with that loneliness and how much I missed home. I got used to it eventually, but… I was gone from home for five years Viktor. I had a lot more time to adjust and get used to living away from home than you did, when you first came to Japan. A permanent move like that is… I just don’t want you to have to go through that when you’re dealing with so much else right now, so I just think… I’m not saying no, Viktor. Okay? I’m not. I just think we should take some more time to discuss and think about any big decisions like that, instead of being… impulsive about it. I know it’s easy just to go with what you’re feeling, but I think we should take some time.”

Viktor can’t help it. He can’t help the wretched sob which lodges in his throat, and he turns his face away, pressing it against his shoulder as it slips free past clenched teeth.

He doesn’t even know why he’s crying again. Yuuri was right. Of course he was. Viktor knows that. He can’t just… just up and leave. Yakov and Yura were here, and they were… they were family to him. He would miss them so much if he left, and he couldn’t… he couldn’t expect them to go with him and Yuuri if they left. It was just… he doesn’t understand why any of this is happening. Why Russia was like this. Why it seemed to hate him so much when he’d given everything, _everything_ for it. God, he just… didn’t want it to be like this anymore. 

Why did it always have to be like this?

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri breaths, and he’s leaning forward, wrapping an arm around him, pressing his lips to his head. “I know. I know, I know.”

Viktor turns his face, pressing it against Yuuri’s shoulder, and he doesn’t try to stop himself anymore, sobbing broken and helpless against him. 

Yuuri holds onto him, and Viktor thinks, if nothing else, oh, at least he has Yuuri. For now, at least, he has his Yuuri. 

So long as he had him, maybe… maybe the rest of it he could somehow bear. 

So long as he had him…

Oh, please, please, God, let him always have this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so, so much to all my readers and reviewers! You guys are amazing beyond words, and just know I read and treasure each and every comment you guys leave! Thank you again!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter today guys, but I hope you enjoy anyway. Let me know your thoughts if you have a chance, and thank you again!

“Hey, Viktor, what do you want for breakfast?”

Yuri glances over his shoulder, finding the older man sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a piece of paper which he’s scribbling something over.

Yuri frowns when Viktor doesn’t answer, and he feels his breath catch in his throat a moment later when he realizes he’s facing Viktor’s left side. That he probably couldn’t hear him.

For an instant, there’s such a swell of grief and rage inside, that Yuri feels like he can’t breathe, and he turns away, closing his eyes, forcing himself to swallow several times, to calm down.

The last thing Viktor needs is for him to freak out because he can’t _hear_. The last thing he needs is to be reminded of what’s been stolen from him.

He’d heard him and Katsuki last night. Heard Viktor crying, Katsuki’s hushed voice trying to reassure him. 

Yuri hadn’t expected the first night back to be easy, but lying in the guest bedroom, hearing Viktor’s distressed sobbing through the walls, had been almost unbearable. Yuri had struggled with whether he should get up and check on the two of them or not, before finally deciding it was probably too private, whatever was going on.

Nobody had mentioned it yet this morning, but Yuri had seen the bags standing out stark underneath both Viktor’s and Katsuki’s eyes, Viktor’s face in particular looking pale and gaunt, the weight of exhaustion heavy in the way he held himself.

Yakov had spent the night too but had needed to leave early back to the rink, and if he’d heard anything of what Yuri had, he’d said nothing.

Yuri bites his lip, turning to look back over his shoulder at Viktor, seeing him still hunched over that piece of paper, still scribbling on it.

He sighs, pushing off from the kitchen counter and making his way towards the table.

“Hey.” He starts once he’s standing in front of Viktor.

Viktor hears him this time, looking up from what he’s doing.

Yuri’s eyes are drawn to the paper under his hand, and he sees Viktor’s writing out his own name, over and over. Or, at least, he’s trying to. 

The elegant curves of Viktor’s handwriting are… gone. In its place are messy, jagged lines and dashes. A barely legible scrawl. Yuri can see Viktor’s long, delicate fingers twitching around the pen in his hand, struggling to hold onto it, and he knows it’s the nerve damage from his hands having been battered, trying to shield himself from the blows of the baseball bat. 

Something ugly and horrible twists in Yuri’s heart, and he has to look away a moment, his eyes burning as he tries to suck breath into his lungs; tries to keep the wretched scream which wants to burst from his throat tamped down.

“Yura?” He hears Viktor ask, and he forces himself to look back. Viktor is looking up at him expectantly, his eyes wide and unsure.

He forces himself to focus.

“I was just asking what you want for breakfast. I thought I’d cook while your little piggy is in the shower.”

He tries to joke, hoping Viktor can’t see the dismay he’s suddenly drowning in.

It seems to work, Viktor smiling brightly at him. He’s so fucking _nice_, and Yuri’s throat suddenly feels too tight. 

“Whatever you want to make is fine by me Yura! That’s so sweet of you!”

“Yeah, well…” Yuri fidgets, feeling his face heat. This was why he wasn’t usually so nice! Everyone always had to make such a thing out of it! “I was thinking omelets. I’ve been practicing at home with Grandpa.”

“Omelets sound wonderful!” 

Viktor’s enthusiasm, as always, is catching, and Yuri can’t help the smile which tugs at his lips despite the absurdity of it.

“Okay.” He nods, heading back towards the kitchen. 

//

Yuri, Viktor and Yuuri spend the morning eating the omelets (which everyone agrees all around are fantastic, and Yuri can’t help the swell of pride he feels at the compliments), and watching trashy, American romance comedies.

Yuri and Katsuki both have a great time making fun of how cheesy and unrealistic it all is, but of course Viktor takes the films seriously, shushing the two of them when they try to make some comment, or when they start giggling, his eyes fixed on the TV, attentive and engrossed.

He swoons and sighs, grasping hold of Katsuki’s arm and leaning his head on his shoulder at particularly over the top romantic moments, and Yuri can’t help rolling his eyes. He can’t help the fond smile which tugs at his lips though either.

Viktor really was a dork. But his endless idealism was impossible to hate, Yuri thinks. It was impossible because he really _believed_ it. In things like love at first sight and happily ever afters and all that. How he still did, after everything he’d been through, Yuri doesn’t know.

That was just Vitya. 

He was special. A special person.

Halfway through the third film, and Viktor falls asleep.

Katsuki taps Yuri on the shoulder, and when he turns, he sees Viktor slumped against his fiancé, out like a light, lips parted, his chest lifting and falling with deep, even breaths. 

“I’m gonna go put him in our bed.” Katsuki says, his voice hushed, and Yuri nods.

“Okay. I’ll get these dishes cleaned up I guess.”

Katsuki smiles at him, warm and genuine.

“Thanks Yuri. Hey, maybe we can figure out something to do on our own, once I get him settled?” 

He nods down at Viktor.

“Sure. That’d be cool.”

He stands, shutting off the TV and beginning to gather the dirty plates from the coffee table. He watches from his periphery as Katsuki carefully lifts Viktor into his arms.

It’s weird, seeing how easily Katsuki is able to hold Viktor up. Viktor has such long arms and legs, his longer, broader frame only more evident with him cradled like some giant baby against Yuuri’s chest. 

It’s kind of cute, actually, though Yuri would sooner die than admit _that_ out loud.

//

“Hey, Yuri… I… I just wanted to say thank you, again, for everything. For staying with us, and… it was really nice of you to make breakfast for us this morning. You’ve already been such a massive help.”

Katsuki looks at him with such earnestness that Yuri feels his own face heat in embarrassment. He shrugs and turns away, wishing everyone would stop making such a big deal out of it. It wasn’t like living with Grandpa was the greatest situation ever anyway, with all the rules and shit he had. And anyway, Viktor and Yuuri both were his friends. Friends were supposed to help each other out. He didn’t think he should get any kind of special recognition for it.

They’d decided on a game of chess.

Yuri was actually _losing_ to Katsuki. He could hardly believe it. Weren’t Russian’s supposed to be the best at this stupid fucking game?

The number of white pieces taken off the board as opposed to the black suggested otherwise.

It was Yakov’s board, apparently. He and Viktor used to play pretty regularly together, whenever the old geezer came over. Viktor was pretty good, actually, but Yakov was better, and usually won. 

Katsuki was better than Viktor too, if he was telling the truth about being some sort of High School champion back home in Japan. 

“_Don’t feel bad. I beat Viktor all the time too. He only wins maybe 20 percent of our games_.” Katsuki had grinned at him after taking one of his Knights three moves ago.

“_I’m gonna sic Yakov on you_.” Yuri had threatened.

“_Well at least I’d have a challenge then_.” 

Yuri had scowled but admitted silently to himself that the comeback was pretty good.

The two of them fall into silence for a few minutes, continuing to move the pieces, though if he’s being honest with himself, Yuri isn’t really trying anymore. He’s gonna lose this stupid game anyway.

He lifts a hand, chewing absently on his thumb nail.

“… So… how is he?” He finally works up the courage to ask, daring a glance at Katsuki.

Katsuki pauses halfway to reaching for a pawn, lifting his own eyes.

“… I heard you guys last night.” Yuri admits quietly. “Viktor was crying.”

A flash of naked pain etches across Katsuki’s face a moment, and he looks away. Yuri sees his hand tighten a moment over the forgotten pawn, before he pulls it back, bringing it to his lap.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and Yuri worries that maybe he’s made a mistake by bringing it up.

“… His pain medication wore off while he was sleeping. He woke up and the pain was bad enough that it made him sick. He… ended up throwing up in bed, so he was… he was pretty upset about that.”

Yuri feels his eyes burn, his throat tighten.

He hated hearing things like this about Viktor. He thought he’d be over it by now. After spending all that time with Viktor in the hospital, seeing him so fucked up. But it still hurt. Still seemed unreal, somehow, these things which kept reminding him again and again, in such a brutal, ugly way just how human Viktor really was.

He guesses he’d spent so many years looking up to Viktor, admiring him, that at some point he’d convinced himself that the older skater wasn’t like the rest of them. That he wasn’t susceptible to the same shit the rest of them were. 

Even when he’d started to learn more details about Viktor’s life, about how shitty his childhood had been, and what scum bags his parents were… even when he’d learned that Viktor had used to get bullied mercilessly in school by the other kids, still, somehow, there was something about him that seemed invulnerable to Yuri. Like all the bad shit that had happened to him hadn’t ever really touched him. That he was so strong that he’d been able to take it all in stride.

Maybe it was because of how consistently excellent Viktor was in his skating. No matter what was going on in his life, Viktor had never faltered in his career. Sure, he’d had not so great performances here and there. Heck, Yuri had seen old footage of Viktor at National’s, when he’d been 17, where he’d flubbed every single one of his jumps, and had fallen on a fucking _step sequence_, all of which had caused him to end up finishing 6th overall. The only reason he’d made World’s that year was based on his otherwise sterling reputation and success up to that point. But scenarios like those were more than rare for Viktor. He was almost always on point. He never fell. He never fucked up his spins. He never was flat, or unfeeling out there on the ice. That same year he’d messed up so bad at Nationals, he’d gone on to win his first World championship gold. 

The only other times he hadn’t swept practically every competition was due to injury keeping him from competing at all.

So maybe it was that, that unheard of, unmatched determination and success, that refusal to let himself lose, which made it so unbelievable to Yuri, seeing just how truly vulnerable and broken Viktor was.

It didn’t sit well with him. It felt wrong. Like it shouldn’t be. Like it _couldn’t_ be. But there it was. He’d seen it yesterday, after they’d finally gotten away from the hospital, and Viktor had broken down into sobs over what that piece of trash reporter had said to him. 

Viktor had been so _hurt_, over some no name loser’s baseless accusations and insinuations. 

That’s when Yuri had started to really accept finally that Viktor wasn’t the untouchable stone pillar he’d always believed him to be, before all this. When he’d begun to accept that maybe Viktor never _had_ been. Things affected him. People’s words and actions hurt him. They damaged him. 

He’d been carrying that damage around all this time. He’d just done a hell of a good job covering it up. For years and years, he’d covered it all up.

God… what does that _do_ to a person, Yuri wonders. To be so hurt inside, and to never feel like you can let anyone see it? To hold it all inside because you think you aren’t… what, _allowed_ to let anyone know you’re human? Yuri doesn’t know what reasoning Viktor had for keeping himself and his feelings so well hidden all his life. Whatever it was, he could only think to himself that it was tragic.

Viktor was such a good person. He’d always gone so far out of his way to help everyone in any way he could. Why hadn’t he ever been able to help himself then? Or just… _ask_ someone for help?

It was no wonder Viktor would sometimes go into these spells of depression. 

But he’d always made it seem like he could handle those on his own too. God… it was so fucked up. It was heartbreaking.

“I got him cleaned up and everything, but I… I think he was pretty embarrassed by what happened. I told him it was fine, but you know how he is.”

Yeah, Yuri did know. 

“I think it was also because of what that reporter said yesterday. That really hurt Vitya’s feelings. You know?”

Yuri nods.

“Yeah. That guy was a piece of shit.” 

Katsuki nods in agreement.

“… He feels things really deeply, huh?” Yuri says. “Here.” 

He slaps a hand against his own heart.

Katsuki nods again, his eyes looking over-bright behind his glasses.

“People that say shit like that to him are bastards.” Yuri goes on, a sudden swell of anger blooming in his chest as he thinks about that whole shitshow yesterday. “They don’t deserve to even think about him, let alone talk to him. There should be some kinda law that makes it illegal, I swear. He doesn’t deserve that fucking shit. Viktor’s a good fucking person.”

Katsuki chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob, and he lifts a hand, wiping at his eyes.

“Yes he is.”

“Even if he is a dork.” Yuri presses, and Katsuki laughs again, this time more genuine. 

“He was nerding out pretty hard over those Romcoms, huh?”

“Pff.” Yuri snorts. “They were so bad, but he was acting like they were Shakespeare or some shit.”

“I know! He’s ridiculous. The funniest thing is I think he’s serious. He was really into them.”

“Shit, a bomb coulda’ gone off, and I don’t think he would have looked away from Julia Roberts being swept off her feet by Richard Gear or whatever that dudes name is.”

Katsuki brings a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter, his eyes squeezing shut with the effort.

Yuri grins.

“Aww, we shouldn’t make fun of him though.” Katsuki finally manages between his giggles. “He’s sweet.”

“Yeah… okay. Even I have to admit he’s kinda cute. He was _so_ into it.”

Katsuki’s laughter dies out, and he stares at Yuri with wide, startled eyes.

“What?” Yuri snaps, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Did you just call Viktor _cute_!?” 

Yuri feels his own eyes widen, his mouth falling open as his brain struggles to come up with a reply.

Shit.

“Ohh, I’m gonna tell him!”

“You better fucking not!”

“Just try and stop me Yurio! Wait ‘till he hears! Oh man…”

“Mother fucker!”

Chess pieces go flying as Yuri launches himself across the table, hands reaching out for the fucking pig.

Katsuki yelps, scrambling up and out of reach.

“Missed me!”

Yuri growls, getting to his feet.

To hell with keeping quiet. It was Viktor’s fault anyway! If he woke up, then that was the price for making him talk out of his ass.

“Alright you asshole! Get the hell back here!”

“You’ll have to catch me first!” 

Katsuki takes off, and Yuri’s after him in a flash.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a break in the case, and Yakov struggles with the consequences...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always guys, your support means the world to me! I can never thank you enough! Please continue to let me know your thoughts! I treasure each and every review left, believe me, even if I don't always have the time to reply.

“Good job Yura! Really great!”

Viktor’s enthusiastic slaps against the boards echo around the rink, and Yuri digs his blades into the ice, coming to a halt a few meters from him.

Viktor’s smile is wide as he gestures for Yuri to come over.

Yuri thinks, even six months ago, he would have snapped at Viktor, or ignored him completely, skating off to work on his own.

It was strange, how he hadn’t felt that kind of irritation towards Viktor in a long while now. 

Milla tells him he’s matured. That had earned her a shove and a “fuck off”. 

He pushes off, gliding towards Viktor, and thinks it was a good idea, asking him to come out to the rink this morning. 

He doesn’t remember seeing Viktor smile this much, this genuinely, in at least three months. 

Everyone’s been coming up to him. All the skaters at the club, juniors and seniors alike, their happiness at seeing him obvious and, Yuri thinks, sincere. Especially Milla and Georgi. The both of them had sat with Viktor for so long, just talking, asking him about a million and one questions, that Yakov had finally had to scream at them to get back out on the ice. 

That had been just as well, Yuri thinks. Viktor looked exhausted, even now, the bags under his eye’s dark smudges. He’d been home only a couple of weeks, and things were still pretty rough. 

Yuri had talked with Katsuki late last night, after Viktor had already gone to bed, and they’d both agreed it would be a good idea to bring Viktor down to the rink, get him out of the apartment and out in the world a little bit. He’d been restless the past few days, growing more withdrawn, both Yuri and Katsuki concerned that he might be falling into a depression. They’d both thought a familiar place would do him some good then. Viktor’s enthusiasm when they’d shared the idea with him this morning had only encouraged it more.

“Your components are looking great Yura!” Viktor beams at him when he reaches the boards, handing him a water bottle.

“Thanks.” He takes the bottle, swigging it.

“You’re really improving, especially in your transitions in and out of your jumps. You’ve upped the technical difficulty by a lot, and that’s something the judges will take note of. I’m really impressed Yura. You’re doing everything very cleanly. The only elements you can probably work on a bit are your rockers and brackets.”

Yuri frowns, turning and looking down at Vitkor.

“How so?” He asks. He can’t keep the slight irritation out of his voice. He’s been doing better, receiving criticism, but he still struggles sometimes.

Viktor’s brow furrows, his lips pulling down slightly at the corners.

“Well… I mean…” he starts, then stops, as though struggling to find the words. “It’s… it’s difficult to put into words. I mean, your edges when you go into your turns could be smoother. It… it would be easier if I could…”

He trails off, his expression falling, and Yuri feels his heart twist.

Viktor had been about to say it would be easier if he could show him. Of course. That was how Viktor had always worked. Getting out there on the ice and showing whoever he was working with what he wanted them to do. He’d never been great at communicating what he was thinking in words. He taught through demonstration. 

He couldn’t do that now.

“… What about Katsuki?” Yuri tries hopefully. “Weren’t you working on this stuff with him… before…” 

Shit…

Damn it, Yuri thinks furiously, he shouldn’t have brought that up.

But Viktor’s eyes widen, bright, and he begins to nod.

“Yes! Actually! I was working with him on this exactly! He could show you what I mean, I think. He… he should be back soon, yes?”

Yuri gives a stiff nod.

Katsuki had stepped out a little while ago to take Makka for a walk, and should probably be back any minute, he would think.

Viktor smiles up at him, but Yuri can’t miss the way his smile seems almost frayed around the edges, or the tight, stressed lines stretching at the skin around the corners of his eyes.

It was a look becoming more and more familiar on Viktor. This awful expression of forced cheer, like he was trying desperately to hold in a grief which every moment threatened to consume him.

//

Yakov’s hands feel numb as he presses the end call button on his phone, letting the device drop along the surface of his desk.

Of all the days for this to happen…

He’d known, somehow, when he’d seen who it was on the caller ID. He’d known what it was about.

The police captain who’d been running the investigation into Viktor’s attack had answered when he’d picked up.

“Mr. Felstman.” He’d started, voice clipped and official, and Yakov’s voice for a moment had refused to work, before he’d forced himself to reply.

“Good news, Mr. Feltsman. I know I promised I’d inform you first, since you wanted to be the one to handle letting Mr. Nikiforov know. We’ve found the men who we believe to be responsible for the attack. Picked ‘em up yesterday in two, joint sting operations.”

The captain had informed him they’d found them after combing through hundreds of hours of CCTV footage from around the area where Vitya had been attacked, focusing in on the hours immediately preceding and immediately following, along with interviewing dozens upon dozens of witnesses who claimed these men to have spoken to them, bragging about what they’d done. Apparently, they’d also found several witnesses who could testify to the fact that these men had tried selling them Viktor’s stolen property. His clothes, and his phone, all of which had been retrieved by the police, making a conviction all but certain.

Yakov had felt dizzy with nausea and fury at the captain’s words, leaning over onto the edge of his desk. The thought of those… those _monsters_, their filthy hands drenched in Viktor’s blood, their baseness knowing no limit, trying to profit by selling off the things they’d stolen from him, after nearly beating him to death… Bragging about it to people as though they’d done something worthy of praise…

They’d ruined Viktor’s life.

God… God… what kind of _people_ were these…?

Yakov had barely been able to listen as the Captain had gone on to inform him that, in order to obtain any kind of serious jail time, however, it was going to be necessary for Viktor to testify against these men in a court of law, since there were no actual eyewitnesses to the attack itself. 

Only Viktor had been there to tell the story of what had actually been done to him. Everyone else would be a third-party witness. Not good enough.

Yakov doesn’t know what to do.

Vitya was out there, down by the rink. Yakov would be able to see him from his office window if he only took the trouble to walk the few feet across the space and glance out and down. 

He would see Vitya there, sitting in that wheelchair by the boards, watching Yuri skate. Because he couldn’t skate himself anymore. 

He couldn’t even fucking _walk_.

The boy had finally been having an alright time of it, since early this morning; his spirts seemingly lifted by the familiarity of the ice. 

Yakov doesn’t want to ruin this for him. This one moment of peace. He doesn’t want to bring this down on Viktor’s head, when the boy was already dealing with so much.

He’d been back home barely over two weeks, and things were already harder than any of them could have anticipated.

Yuri was staying over with Viktor and Katsuki, which Yakov was grateful for. He knows both boys were grateful too, for the extra help. 

Yuri reported back to Yakov every day. He told Yakov Viktor was having trouble sleeping. That in the middle of the night, when Yuri would get up to use the bathroom, he often heard Viktor and Katsuki still awake in their bedroom. Sometimes he could hear Viktor crying, and Yuuri talking softly to him, murmuring words of comfort. Sometimes Viktor would wake in a lot of pain. Sometimes he was sick from it, and Yuuri would have to get him to the bathroom to get him cleaned up. 

Yakov had seen the despondency himself, visiting as many times a week as he’d been able. He’d been hoping to give Viktor some kind of distraction. Hoping to keep him from becoming depressed. For a while, he’d been bringing a chess board, playing games with the boy.

Viktor had always been pretty good at the game. Had even been able to beat Yakov on occasion. But Yakov had been able to see Viktor wasn’t really able to concentrate now, losing what games they did play quickly and with little effort on Yakov’s part.

He grew restless when Yuuri was away. And these past couple weeks, Viktor’s fiancé had had to be gone a lot, going out to set up future appointments with physical therapists, and meeting with several psychiatrists, trying to find the right one.

When Yuuri would return, Viktor would cling to him with a naked, almost tragic desperation, and Yakov often felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t be allowed to see.

He doesn’t know how Vitya is going to react to this news.

Not well, Yakov suspects. Especially not the part about him needing to testify, if there was any hope of putting these bastards away. 

Yakov wasn’t reacting well to that news himself.

He didn’t want Viktor to have to do that. To have to face those men again. The boy felt things so deeply. Had such a soft and sensitive heart. Yakov fears it would overwhelm Vitya, being faced with the men who had nearly killed him.

Hell, Yakov couldn’t be sure of what his own reaction would be, once he saw them. Once he was in the same room as the monsters that had so devastated Vitya’s life.

God, he can hardly think of it without feeling his face heat in rage, his heart thudding hard against his ribs.

They’d caught the sons of bitches. They’d caught them. 

Nothing could ever make up for what they’d done to his boy though. No punishment would ever be enough. 

He doesn’t know what to do.

He’s going to have to tell Viktor. He can’t keep this news from him. 

He just doesn’t know how he’s going to do it.

//

“You’re better than me Yura.”

Yuri freezes midway through tying the laces on his left sneaker, glancing up at Viktor.

They’re in the locker rooms, Yuri having finished up his ice time for the day. Katsuki is out getting them some coffee and hot chocolate from the rink cafeteria. 

Viktor is looking back at him, his expression thoughtful, and Yuri scoffs.

“No I’m not. What kind of fucking stupid thing is that to say?” He snaps, annoyed. What the hell was Viktor doing? Trying to fuck with him or something?

Viktor shakes his head.

“You are.” He repeats, and there’s nothing amused in his tone. He’s being serious. “You can do things which I could never have done at your age. You’re far more advanced than I was. You would have beaten me for sure.”

Yuri finishes tying off his shoelace, before straightening, glaring at Viktor.

A year ago, he would have agreed with what Viktor was saying, letting his own ego dictate instead of logic. He would have felt proud and smug to hear Viktor finally admit that he was more talented.

He’d grown enough in the last year to realize that ego of his had been spouting bullshit.

He’d realized it after Viktor had kicked his ass at World’s last year. After he’d landed the first quad axle in history. After finally developing an understanding that figure skating was about more than just great jumps and technique. It was as much an artform as it was a sport, and no one, _no one_, had ever been able to touch Viktor’s expression on the ice.

“You’re crazy.” He tells Viktor now, standing up from the bench. “Why do you think I can do jumps and shit that you weren’t doing at my age?”

Viktor looks up at him, brow furrowed.

“Because no one else was doing them either when you were a kid.” Yuri says before he can reply. “Aren’t you supposed to be all smart and shit? Ever hear the term ‘necessity is the mother of invention’? You weren’t doing all the jumps I can do because you didn’t have to. No one else was doing them back then, so why would you? What, you think if quads had been a regular thing back in the day, you wouldn’t have had the ability to do them when you were 16, 17 years old? Give me a fucking break Viktor. It’s _because_ of you that quads are so prevalent in the sport now anyway. You were the first person to land a quad flip in competition. The first person to land a quad loop. And you’re the first and _only_ person to land a quad axle now. No one else can even do that shit, and you’ve been doing it regularly since landing it at World’s last year. Not to mention, you’ve always had, and still have, by far, the highest level of difficulty in your components and transitions into and out of your jumps. You’re a fucking freak Viktor, and I mean that in a good way. Nobody’s as good as you, you idiot.”

For a moment, Viktor only stares back at him, seeming, for once, stunned into silence.

Yuri smirks at him.

“Heh. Betcha’ didn’t think I’d argue with you about it, huh? I probably wouldn’t have if you’d said the same bullshit to me a year or two ago. I _did_ think I was better than you for a while. ‘Till you started kicking my ass all over the place, despite being an old man. Viktor… don’t you know you’ve been a hero to all of us for basically all our lives? None of us would even be where we are if it hadn’t been for you. So give yourself some more fucking credit than that. I don’t wanna have to be the one to defend you all the time. Alright?”

“… Yuri.” Viktor breathes, voice hardly a whisper.

And suddenly he’s crying, and shit, shit, shit, what the hell did he do? This isn’t what he’d been trying to do! Why was Viktor crying?!

“Viktor… what… what’s wrong? Hey!”

“Sorry… I’m sorry…” Viktor stammers. 

“Why are you crying?! What did I say?!”

“N-nothing… nothing… just that…you’re…”

“What?” Yuri presses, feeling more and more alarmed. He doesn’t understand what he said.

“… You’re kind. I’m just… I’m glad you’re my friend.”

Viktor’s voice wavers, and he brings his hand up, covering his eyes. He shakes his head, and Yuri feels his heart sink.

“Come on. Hey, come on Vitya. It’s fine. You don’t need to cry over it.”

“I know. I know. I’m so stupid. I’m just… I’m glad Yuri, and… and you really are gifted though. You and Yuuri both. It means the world to hear you say I’ve been a hero to you, but you’ve… the both of you have every chance of surpassing what I’ve done. I know you do. Whatever you say, Yura, I didn’t have the strength you do when I was your age. Or Yuuri. Whatever I’ve done, you’ll catch it soon, and then go beyond it. You already can almost do the axle. You’re only 18. I wasn’t able to do it until I was almost 30.”

Yuri waves him off.

“I can barely get four rotations in the air Viktor. You’re doing almost five and _landing_ it. I’m not landing my _barely_ four.”

“But you’re…”

“Look, we could argue back and forth on this all fuckin’ day Viktor. I really don’t want to. And besides, even if I _do_ eventually get the axle and every other technical element you’ve ever done, as _well_ as you’ve done, no one’s ever matched your artistry on the ice. So it’s fuckin’ useless arguing about this anyway. Shit, half my best programs are choreographed by _you_. Same with Katsuki. That’s not something you can just learn to do. So stop selling yourself short, you moron, and listen to me. You’re the greatest fuckin’ figure skater that’s ever lived, and nobody who knows anything about this sport is ever going to argue otherwise. Except _you_, apparently. Jesus.”

Just then, Yuuri walks through the door, holding a tray of drinks.

“Hey, Katsuki!” Yuri jumps on the opportunity. “Who’s the greatest figure skater of all time?”

“You can’t ask him Yura! He’s…”

“Shut up. Answer the question Katsuki!”

Yuuri stops, blinking at him a moment, then at Viktor, expression lined in confusion. 

“Wait, Viktor, are you alright? You’ve been crying…”

“Don’t get off topic piggy! Give me an answer! And he’s _fine_! He just got emotional because I was being _nice_ to him. Blah.”

“Huh…” Katsuki starts, hesitating as he continues to watch Viktor with concern. “I mean… Viktor… It’s Viktor.”

He shrugs, as if the answer should have been obvious, and Yuri turns towards Viktor.

“Ha! See? Even the pork cutlet bowl agrees with me!”

“Wait, Viktor, you don’t agree?” Yuuri looks at his fiancé, his expression even more confused. “Who do you think?”

Yuri rolls his eyes.

“No one. He’s just being stupidly humble, as usual. You got the drinks?”

“Um, yeah.” Katsuki holds out the tray.

“Great.” Yuri wastes no time picking his hot chocolate from the tray. “Now let’s go get Yakov so he can drive us back to the apartment. Conversation over.”

He doesn’t give Viktor or Katsuki a chance to say anything before he’s heading out of the locker room, towards Yakov’s office.

He smiles to himself as he strides down the hall, remembering the stunned look on Viktor’s face.

He guesses it _was_ possible, once in a while, to fluster the living legend after all.

//

Yakov glances back to where Vitya is sitting with Yura on the couch. 

The two of them are playing video games or something, Vitya’s brow furrowed in an expression of uncertainty.

“So this is a different video game box than your other one?” He’s asking, and Yura rolls his eyes.

“Video game _console_.” He corrects, voice exacerbated but fond. “And yeah, this is the Nintendo Switch. My other is the PlayStation 4.” 

Yakov can’t help the faint smile which tugs at his lips, seeing the two of them together like this.

He doesn’t think Yura’s ever really understood how much his friendship has meant to Viktor over the years.

Yura was so different from Viktor. The friendship between them had always seemed unlikely for it. The young skater was maybe what one would call a “cool kid”. He had friends at school, he was popular. He understood about all the latest trends and fads. He was “hip”. Sophisticated, in a strange way, despite his at times petulant behavior. Yura understood how to navigate socially. 

Vitya had never been any of that.

Yakov remembers him as a boy, Yura’s age and younger, and how isolated he’d been. 

Because of how he was, because of the way he wore his heart on his sleeve and expressed himself so openly, because he never knew any different than to be himself, and show what he felt without reservation, the other kids had found him strange. And as children are wont to do, they had forged their uncertainty into cruelty, and aimed it at Viktor, an easy and open target.

Viktor didn’t have a single unkind bone in his body. He didn’t know how to fight back. Yakov doesn’t think, even if he did, that he ever would have.

He’d been labeled a “dork”. And as children can sometimes sense things without understanding them, they’d sensed Viktor was different from most of them, realized he was gay without realizing what that actually meant. 

The boy had been constantly harassed in school. Bullied and excluded. He would try to hide what was going on, but Yakov had known. It was plain in the look of misery and defeat etched into the boys features at the end of each day. In the way he would mutter out the barest minimum when asked how things were going in school. In the way he never had any friends to go out with. No one ever coming around. No one ever calling.

It helped nothing that Vitya had never understood about popular things. How he knew nothing about what music the kids his age listened to. Nothing about what they found “cool”. Nothing about what might have made him fit in more. Vitya had never known how, and his parents, useless trash that they were, had never helped him retain any semblance of a normal childhood. 

Maybe that was where he and Yura found common ground, then.

Yura’s parents weren’t around. His father had never been in the picture, and his mother was the definition of irresponsibility, dumping the boy off with her own father, Yura’s grandfather, Nikolai, while she ran around doing whatever the hell it was which occupied her days. Sometimes she would show up, spend a week, maybe two with her son, before disappearing again. Yakov had thought more than a few times it would be better for the boy if the woman disappeared for good. It was cruel, to play with Yura’s emotions like that. Sending mixed singles. Yura, despite his blunt and sometimes harsh exterior, was a sensitive and kind boy. Yakov knew it hurt him, the way his mother came in and out of his life, leaving him unsure of what she even really felt towards him.

At least the boy had his grandfather. Nikolai was a good man. He loved Yura fiercely and made up in every way he could for the ways in which the boy’s parents had failed.

Yuri was Viktor’s friend. He hung out with Viktor outside of practice. He’d done so since he was a little boy, and Viktor a teenager. He hung out with him, when nobody else would. 

Yakov shakes his head. 

No, he doesn’t think Yuri will ever fully understand how much that meant to Viktor. 

He turns from looking at them, back to Viktor’s fiancé, who’s busy putting together sandwiches for lunch. The both of them are standing in the kitchen, and Yakov keeps his voice low.

“Katsuki, can I talk to you a moment?”

Yuuri turns to look at him, eyes sharp behind his glasses. 

The boy is smart. He’d known Yakov wanted something, just by his lingering close by, but he hadn’t said anything, waiting for him to speak up on his own, and Yakov once more finds himself understanding better the reasons why Viktor loved this young man. 

Yuuri was patient, and kind, and observant. He paid attention, and never pushed. Never tried to force anything from anyone.

Viktor had never had many people in his life like that. Everyone wanted something from the boy. Even Yakov himself expected excellence and hard work from Viktor.

Yuuri wanted nothing from him but for him to be himself.

Yakov doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to fully express the gratitude he has for Yuuri. He’d saved Viktor’s life, in so many ways. 

Saved him from the black hole of his depression. Saved him from a life of being alone. From despair.

Had saved him literally, from freezing to death. From bleeding to death. 

Yakov knows, if Yuuri hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t found Viktor out there on the streets, beaten to within an inch of his life, Viktor wouldn’t be here now. He’d be dead. 

The thought of it is enough to make Yakov’s throat close up, his eyes burn, and he grits his teeth, shoving the awfulness aside.

“Outside?” Yakov nods in the direction of the apartment’s small balcony.

He can’t talk about this in front of Viktor right now. Or even Yura. He isn’t even sure how Yuuri is going to react, but he thinks it’s better to talk with him about it first, before laying it on Viktor. Get the boy’s opinion on how to handle this. 

Yuuri studies him a moment longer, his glance shifting then to Viktor and Yuri on the couch, before turning back. He gives a single nod, and Yakov turns, walking swiftly for the balcony, Yuuri following silently on his heels.

“What’s going on?” Yuuri asks as soon as they’re outside, his voice low and careful.

Yakov hesitates, suddenly uncertain.

He watches Yuuri a moment, lips in a tight line, and he can see the anxiety beginning to form in the young man’s eyes.

“Yakov…” 

“They found them.” He blurts without really meaning to. 

Yuuri blinks.

“… What?”

“The… the men, who did this to Vitya. They… the police, they found them.”

Yuuri stares at him for what seems too long, unmoving, eyes wide, open with shock. His lips part, as if wanting to speak, but no words usher forth, and Yakov reaches out, ready to ask him if he’s alright.

“… They found them?” Yuuri’s voice stammers out before he can, an obvious tremor laced through it. “They have them?”

Yakov nods, his own heart kicking hard in his chest as he sees the color drain from Yuuri’s face.

“In custody? They have the men who attacked Viktor?”

Another nod, and abruptly Yuuri is turning from him, bending over, hands on his knees. His breaths start coming quicker, shallow, and Yakov steps forward, alarmed.

“Yuuri…” he starts, and Yuuri shakes his head, hard.

Yakov freezes, uncertain of what to do. He can’t tell if the boy is having one of his anxiety attacks, and if he is, what he should do to handle it. He doesn’t want to make it worse, whatever’s happening.

He stands, stiff and unsure as Yuuri sinks down to his knees, his hands coming up to cover his face.

“Oh… oh God.” He says. “Oh God.”

Yakov hesitates a moment longer, before closing the distance, crouching down beside him and placing a gentle hand along his shoulder. He can feel the boy trembling. 

He glances up, through the partially cracked doorway, leading back into the apartment, relieved to see Vitya and Yura still sitting on the couch, playing some game, unaware of what’s taking place outside.

“Are you alright?” Yakov asks, bringing his eyes back to Yuuri.

Yuuri nods.

“Yeah. Y-yes, just… oh God, they have them. They… they really have them?”

He looks up at Yakov finally. He isn’t crying. But his face is tight, a weird expression which the old coach can’t read. 

“Yes.”

“How? How did they find them?” Yuuri asks, voice edging toward frantic.

Yakov bites the inside of his cheek, reluctant to share with Yuuri what the police told him.

It was upsetting. The whole God damned mess was upsetting.

“Talking to witnesses. CCTV footage. A lot of legwork.” He forces out, purposefully vague.

“Witnesses? To… to the attack?!”

Yakov shakes his head.

“No. The men, they… you know they robbed Vitya.” He says quietly, his eyes casting away, heart tight in his chest.

Yuuri only looks at him.

“They tried to hawk Viktor’s belongings. His coat and shoes, and his phone. And they… they told people. About what they’d done. They… _bragged_ about it.”

Yuuri’s crying now.

The tears form instantly in his eyes, his face twisting in anguish, and Yakov struggles to shove the burning in his own eyes back. Yuuri turns from him, bringing a balled fist to his mouth, biting down on the knuckles.

“… Th-they almost killed him. They almost killed him, th-the bastards. They…”

“… I know.” 

“W-why? Why are th-there people like that? H-how can they be s-so… so cruel?”

Yakov frowns, shaking his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t know Yuuri.” 

“Viktor’s a good person.” Yuuri sobs. “He’s such a good person.”

“I know.” Yakov repeats, his throat tight, voice coming out thin and weak. He wishes Yuuri wouldn’t cry. 

“And they h-hurt him s-so much. They hurt him.”

Yakov looks down, his vision blurring with tears. Damn it. Damn it.

He doesn’t know what to do. What to say. He’d known the details would be upsetting to Yuuri. He should have anticipated how much. He should have been better prepared.

“I’m sorry Yuuri.” He tries lamely.

Yuuri shakes his head, a trembling hand wiping at his eyes.

“No, it’s… y-you had to tell me. I know. It’s just… I’m just upset.”

“I know. It’s alright to be angry Yuuri.”

Yuuri nods, stiff and forced as a heavy silence falls between them. Yakov can only wait, keeping a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he hopes for him to calm some.

Eventually, Yuuri does, the tension draining slowly from him, the tears in his eyes still standing clear, but no longer choking him.

“Yuuri, I… there is something else.” Yakov starts, voice low. He hates how unsure he sounds. He worries it’s only going to set the boy further on edge.

Those worries seem confirmed when Yuuri looks up at him, his expression reluctant, frightened, even.

Yakov’s lips purse. There was nothing to it but to say. No point in hedging. No point in lying.

“… They say, in… in order to obtain a significant prison sentence, they’re… they’re going to need more than they have. They’re going to… to need Vitya to testify in court, about… about what happened to him.”

Yuuri stares back at him a long moment, eyes blank like he doesn’t understand. 

Finally, after what seems an eternity, he shakes his head.

“What do you mean they don’t have enough?” He asks, voice trembling. “You said they found Viktor’s belongings on them. That they had witnesses who they… they tried to sell his things to. That they _told_ about what they’d done.”

“Yes.” Yakov nods.

“How is that not _enough_? How isn’t that enough to get a conviction!?”

“It’s enough to get them a minor conviction on a theft charge. It would land them in prison with a sentence of 15 years, at most. That’s what the police told me.”

“That… that’s ridiculous! That’s fucking absurd!” Yuuri cries, voice rising.

“They want to charge them with attempted murder though. And assault with a deadly weapon. But… but because there were no witnesses to the actual… actual attack, o-other than Viktor himself, they… they need him to testify in front of a jury, to tell what was done to him. If he does, they say they’re confident they can put these men away for life.”

For a moment, Yuuri goes silent, staring back at Yakov with something suddenly like hope in his eyes.

“… They… they think they can put them in prison for life?” He finally breathes.

“Yes.” Yakov nods. “They tried to _kill_ Viktor, Yuuri. They _would_ have killed him if… if you hadn’t found him when you did.”

Yakov can’t entirely keep the tremble from his own voice, and he sees Yuuri’s eyes grow wet.

“But they need Viktor to testify.” He goes on after a long, few seconds. 

“… Will they be there? These men. Will… will they be in the courtroom when Viktor testifies?”

Yakov can feel his expression grow grim, and he nods stiffly.

“Yes. That’s… part of the reason I came to you first with this. I don’t know how to tell all of this to Vitya. I don’t know how he’s going to react.”

Yuuri frowns, his eyes casting away.

“… I don’t know either. I don’t… he’s been so _fragile_ lately. He’s been talking about wanting to leave Russia. To move to Japan.”

Yakov feels himself stiffen at the words, something hard and painful clamping down on his heart.

“He’s been…? When? When did he say that?” He asks, the thought of it suddenly, almost overwhelmingly sad to him. He doesn’t want Vitya to leave. He doesn’t want to lose him.

“The first night we were back.” Yuuri answers. “He… I think he was upset because of what that reporter said to him, outside the hospital that day. And then he woke up and he was in all this pain, and it made him sick. He was crying and begging for us to move back to Hesetsu.”

“… And… what did you tell him?” Yakov asks, even as he realizes he doesn’t really want to know the answer. He’s seen the way Vitya looks at Yuuri. He knows, down in his very bones, that whatever Yuuri asked of Vitya, whatever he told him to do, he would do it. In an instant. If Yuuri had said they should go back to Japan, there wasn’t any doubt in his mind he would lose Viktor. No doubt.

“I told him we should wait until he’s… more recovered, before we make any big decisions like that. That we needed to think about something that big more. And… and I reminded him if… if we left, it would mean leaving you behind, and… and Yurio.”

Yakov forces himself to sit still, even as he’s overcome with a sudden urge to wrap this young man up in a hug and tell him thank you, thank you, thank you. For everything. Everything.

“Vitya is as a son to me.” He says instead. “I… it would hurt, to… to lose him. And young Yura looks up to Vitya like a big brother.”

“He knows that.” Yuuri nods. “I think that’s what made him stop and think most of all. The realization that if we went back to Japan, he couldn’t be here with the both of you anymore. But… Yakov, I can’t _blame_ him for wanting to leave. Russia is… it’s a beautiful country. It’s been Viktor’s home, his whole life, and I’ve made it my home with him, but… it’s also been so _ugly_ towards him. He’s got all these bad memories and experiences and I don’t… I don’t think he feels _safe_ anymore. Or… or like he belongs. He’s scared Yakov. And… and I think he’s heartbroken. He’s… Viktor’s the greatest figure skater in history. He’s broken more records and won more medals than any athlete this sport has ever produced, man or woman. He’s given all of that, all of that _glory_ to Russia, the same place that condemns him for being gay. That allows its press to drag him through the mud and paint this picture of him like he’s… he’s some kind of _deviant_ plotting to corrupt the country’s youth, when he’s… God, he’s the sweetest, _kindest_ person I’ve ever known. He’s so _good_. He’d… he’d do anything for you. Give you his last piece of food, if that’s all there was left in the world. You know this about him Yakov. But there’s people here who… who think it’s okay to beat him up, who… who think it’s okay to beat him to death, b-because he’s a man t-that’s attracted to other men. God…”

Yuuri is crying again, the tears forming fast and thick in his eyes, and he reaches a hand up, wiping at them.

“And now they want him to… to testify in court. To tell… tell a group of strangers about what happened to him. To be in the same room as the monsters that almost _killed_ him.”

“What?”

Yakov’s head snaps up, eyes widening as he sees Yura standing there in the doorway, looking between him and Katsuki, expression confused.

Yuuri looks up at him as well, his own shock at the younger boy’s presence obvious.

“Y-Yurio…” he starts.

“What are you talking about?” Yura cuts him off. “Testify? What’s he’s talking about Yakov?”

Shit, Yakov thinks. 

Shit.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go badly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, massive thank you's to all my readers and reviewers! You guys make my day so much brighter!

Viktor strains to turn and look over his shoulder, trying to spot where it is Yura went.

He needed to use the bathroom bad, and Yura had said he was going to get Yuuri to help take him. But he must have gone to fetch Yuuri at least five minutes ago, and Viktor was starting to sweat, his bladder screaming in protest at every small movement.

Ever since… since the attack, Viktor has found himself needing to use the bathroom all the time it seemed, the frustration of it sometimes too much, made worse by the fact he couldn’t go by himself. That he needed help every step of the way. He hated being this much of a burden on everyone, constantly interrupting them and what they were doing just so they could help him. 

Some days he felt so overcome by his own embarrassment and self-disgust that he held on to the last possible moment before asking for help. He knew it wasn’t healthy, and everyone kept telling him it was alright, that he didn’t have any reason to be afraid to ask, but he couldn’t help how he felt sometimes. 

Right now he isn’t really worried about being an inconvenience. Not when his bladder feels like it’s about to explode. He can feel his skin heating up, dampening with perspiration, the pressure in his bladder beginning to ache in his gums.

He shouldn’t have drunk that big Gatorade.

He swallows dryly as he tries turning round more to see where Yura is.

His neck aches, the pain in his ribs and shoulders a dull throb, and wonders how much time has passed since his last pain pill.

He spots Yura finally, standing in the doorway leading out to the balcony, and blinks, wondering what he’s doing there. 

It must be where Yuuri is, he thinks, waiting as the seconds pass, watching, expecting Yura to turn around, followed by Yuuri hopefully. Only nearly a minute passes, and Yura just keeps standing there. He’s saying something, gesturing wildly, but Viktor can’t hear what he’s saying at all.

He’s starting to feel sick. 

If he doesn’t make it to the bathroom soon, he might… God… he can’t do that. He needs to hold it.

He swallows again, painful and slow.

“Y-Yura.” He calls, only his voice comes out weakly, not loud enough for the boy to hear him.

“Yura.” He tries again. He feels his abdominal muscles strain and stretch as he tries raising his voice, his control over his bladder weak with the atrophy of his muscles.

His teeth clench, and he squeezes his thighs together. 

Shit…

“Yuri, p-please…” he calls one more time.

He can’t raise his voice loud enough without losing control of his bladder, he realizes, and he can feel his eyes burn.

He can’t piss himself. Oh Jesus, it would be so humiliating.

A low whine at his feet draws his attention, and he looks, seeing Makka sitting at the foot of the couch, looking up at him, her tongue lolling.

“Makka…” Viktor breathes, reaching out a trembling hand, burying his fingers in her fur. “C-can you go get Yura girl? Please go get him.” 

Makka barks, leaping to her feet. She turns in a circle, before bounding off, and Viktor thanks whatever powers there are for gifting him with such a smart girl.

He tries turning again, wanting to make sure Makkachin understood, and he feels a powerful relief when he sees her run up to Yura, barking up at him.

Only Yura ignores her, continuing to gesticulate and it looks like argue with whoever it is he’s talking to. 

Makka doesn’t give up, grabbing hold of the boy’s sleeve and tugging.

Finally, Yuri turns his attention to her, and Viktor can see the scowl on his face. The anger. He feels his stomach clench, and he squeezes his eyes shut at the renewed pressure on his bladder. 

“What!?” Yuri snaps at Makkachin.

Makkachin whines, pawing at Yura’s leg.

“Yuri, don’t…”

That was Yuuri’s voice, and suddenly he’s there, pushing past Yura through the doorway, and Viktor feels such an overwhelming relief at the sight of him, he almost sobs.

“What is it girl?” Yuuri asks.

“Yuuri…” Viktor calls out to him, and Yuuri looks up towards him.

Yura turns, and Viktor can see Yakov coming up behind him. 

“Shit, Viktor…” Yura starts, eyes widening. “I fucking forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Yuuri gives Makka’s head one more rub before making his way towards Viktor.

“He needs to use the bathroom. I was coming to get you so you could take him.” 

“I’m sorry Yuuri. I… I can’t hold it much longer.” Viktor stammers out. He feels like he’s dying, God. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it to the bathroom even, he needs to pee so much.

“S-shoot, alright, just… just hold on a second. I’m coming.”

“You need to tell him!” Yuri snaps, and Yakov shushes him harshly.

“What the fuck!?” 

Viktor’s head is spinning. They’ve been fighting about something. He hasn’t seen Yura this angry in a while. 

“… T-tell me what?” He manages, though in truth he can’t care now. He needs the bathroom. “C-can’t it wait?”

“Yes.” Yakov starts, even as Yura hisses out a no.

“It can wait.” Yuuri says, reaching Viktor on the couch, his voice unusually decisive. Viktor can’t find it in himself to argue. Whatever it is, he doesn’t see how it can be that serious. Yura was angry, but he’s always had a temper. It could be anything. 

“Yuuri, I don’t… I really need to go. I drank too much liquid.”

“I know Vitya. It’s alright. We’ll just get you to the bathroom. Okay?”

Viktor nods, trying to shove down the apprehension in his gut.

Something is wrong. Yuuri seems on edge too, and Yakov. 

The uncertainty makes his head swim, the pain of needing to relieve himself worsening by the second, making his thoughts roll in a confused jumble.

He flinches when Yuuri is suddenly right there, standing over him, already bending down and sliding his arms beneath him to lift him up.

“… Y-Yuuri, w-wait…” he starts, his voice half-catching in his throat. But Yuuri doesn’t seem to hear him, already lifting him up. 

Viktor can feel it, the instant the movement jostles his fragile hold on his bladder. He tries only for a moment to stop it before giving in, even as his panic slides into a sickening mixture of wretched mortification and almost pleasurable release at the spread of wet warmth across the crotch of his shorts and down the inside of his thighs. 

The relief lasts only for as long as his bladder takes to empty itself, and then, as the overwhelming stench of his own urine wafts up into the air, Viktor realizes with horrifying clarity that Yuuri is still holding him in his arms, the sleeves of his shirt drenched in piss. He realizes that he’s just wet himself in front of all of them. Yuuri, and Yura, and Yakov. 

They’re all standing there, looking at him, eyes wide and stunned.

Embarrassment gives way to humiliation, to suffocating self-loathing, and Viktor feels the first helpless sob catch in his throat, before a moment later it breaks loose in a pathetic whimper. And then he’s really crying. Wracking sobs which leave him breathless and weak, and all he can do is bury his face in Yuuri’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He weeps brokenly. Uselessly. Oh… oh God, Yuuri… Yuuri’s going to be disgusted with him. He’s going to hate him. Oh God, he’s going to want to leave him now, isn’t he?

How could he have done that?! How could he have allowed himself to lose control like that?!

He was such a useless, disgusting nothing, and they all must know it by now. They didn’t say anything because they were too kind, but they must have known months ago what a sorry waste he was. Without… without his skating, without that, he was good for nothing. He couldn’t win medals for Yakov, or for Russia. He couldn’t mentor Yura, or coach Yuuri. He couldn’t do anything anymore. Couldn’t… couldn’t even make it to the bathroom on his own. Instead peed all over his fiancé and made a fool of himself in front of his coach and friend.

“It’s okay. That’s okay Viktor. Come on. It’s okay.” Yuuri is saying. But Viktor can hear the edge in his voice. He’s upset. Angry even, maybe. Of course he would be. His fiancé was a disgusting fool. That was what he’d tied himself too. He was realizing it, finally. He was finally seeing what everyone else already knew.

More, helpless sobs burst out of him at the thought. He can’t stop them. He can’t control what’s happening to him. He can’t control himself.

God, why did he have to be born like this?

“Can one of you fetch a fresh set of clothes from our room? Shorts and a tank top? And a pair of underwear please. And bring them to the bathroom in the hallway? I… I’m going to take Viktor and get him cleaned up. Alright?”

“But what about…!” Yura starts to snarl.

“Come with me boy!” Yakov snaps before he can finish. 

“I’m sorry.” Viktor weeps still. He doesn’t know what else he can say. He doesn’t know how to fix this. Any of this. 

“It’s alright. Come on.” Yuuri tells him, carrying him across the room.

Viktor buries his fingers in Yuuri’s shirt, and thinks he’s going to end up alone.

Thinks it’s probably what he’s always deserved anyway…

//

“You’re angry at me.” 

Yuuri starts, looking up at him.

“What?” He asks, almost snaps, and Viktor feels the tightness in his gut grow.

He swallows and repeats himself.

“You’re angry at me.” 

Yuuri’s lips thin, and he shakes his head.

“No, I’m not.” He says, going back to spraying Viktor with the wand, washing the piss off of him.

Yuuri’s voice is clipped and curt in a way Viktor can’t remember ever having heard it, and the tightness in his gut uncoils, reaching up into his throat and squeezing down on it with the first sense of panic.

He’d finally started to calm down, once Yuuri had gotten him undressed and into the shower. Finally had been able to stop sobbing like a child. But the unease was returning with each passing second in which Yuuri said nothing, distracted and inattentive in his task. He had hardly looked up at Viktor since they’d been in here, and Viktor couldn’t stop himself from thinking it must be because he was disgusted with him. He couldn’t blame Yuuri for it. He was disgusted with himself.

Yuuri had been angry at him before. Had yelled at him before. Had burst into tears because of Viktor’s own dense stupidity and insensitivity. Because he hadn’t understood Yuuri’s anxiety, and had handled it all wrong.

Yuuri had never done this to him though. This cold, suffocating silence. This refusal to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Viktor says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s scared. His voice wobbles, and Yuuri sighs.

“I know. It’s fine Viktor.” He says, still curt. Almost harsh.

Viktor feels his throat close up all the way, and oh Jesus, he can’t stop it as another sob lodges there. As it comes bursting out in a ragged wail.

“Viktor…”

“You’re going to leave me, a-aren’t you?!” He sobs brokenly. He doesn’t mean to. He hadn’t wanted to say it. But suddenly he feels so certain of it, that he can’t stop himself. The terror of it is overpowering. The fear building now for weeks and weeks, and he can’t keep it back any longer. 

“What?! No! Of course not! Viktor, why would you even… why would you say something like that?!”

“B-because look at me! Look at me Yuuri! I can’t even… c-can’t even make it to the bathroom on my own anymore. I couldn’t… I couldn’t help Yura today at the rink without… without you showing him what I meant. I’m u-useless! I can’t do anything anymore!”

“Viktor, that isn’t…”

“I k-keep messing everything up. I keep making a m-mess of myself, and… and of you, and everyone! I k-know you don’t say anything because… because you’re too kind-hearted. You’re such a good person Yuuri. You deserve better than this. You… you deserve better than me…”

“My God, Viktor, where… where is this coming from? You can’t possibly think any of that is true? Baby, you can’t…”

“You’re angry at me! I can tell!”

“I’m not angry with you. Viktor, I’m just…”

“Then why aren’t you saying anything? Why… why won’t you look at me? It’s… it’s because I’m disgusting, yes. I know. I know Yuuri. I’m sorry. I d-don’t… I don’t mean to be this way. I don’t…”

“Jesus, Viktor, you’re being ridiculous! I’m not angry at you, alright!?” Yuuri snaps, voice raising, and Viktor flinches back, stunned despite himself. 

“Shit…” Yuuri says, softer now. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry Viktor, I didn’t mean to yell. Look, I’ve just… got something on my mind. I’m distracted. It’s got nothing to do with you, or… or I mean, nothing that you’ve done. Okay? You haven’t done anything to make me upset with you, and my God Viktor, I would never leave you. Don’t you know that? I love you so, so much.”

“I know.” Viktor says weakly, guilt suddenly choking him. He had no right to lay his stupid, irrational fears on Yuuri. No right. “I know, but… I just… I feel so useless now. I can’t coach you anymore, Yuuri, because… because I let this happen to me. And of course I’ve noticed you aren’t even skating anymore. Not just for the season. Yuuri, I’m scared you’re going to give up because… because I know how you can get discouraged, and I know you were… you were relying on me to help you achieve your goals. And now I’ve ruined everything. Yuuri, I don’t want you to give up on yourself, just because I’m a fool. I know you were counting on me to help you, but you don’t… you don’t need me to be great Yuuri. You were great before you ever even met me. Okay? Yes? You’re stuck here taking care of me when you should be out there winning gold and breaking records. Please don’t give up because of me, Yuuri! Don’t give up. If you… if you give up, it will be my fault, and I’m scared Yuuri. I’m scared you’ll hate me because I ruined your dreams when you… y-you trusted me to help you make them real. I don’t want you to hate me Yuuri. I don’t want to be the reason you give up on yourself, _please_.”

For a long moment, there’s only silence following Viktor’s plea, and Viktor feels his heart come up into his throat as Yuuri looks away from him.

“… I’ve been thinking about retiring.” Yuuri finally says, voice almost too soft to hear.

“No.” Slips past Viktor’s teeth before he can even think about it. “Yuuri, no. You can’t, please you can’t.”

Yuuri sighs, bringing his eyes back up.

“Viktor, I just… this isn’t a snap decision I’m making. I’ve just been thinking about it.”

“But you can’t Yuuri. You can’t do this.”

“Look, I’m just wondering what the point is. I’m 26 now Viktor. I haven’t got much time left in my prime, if any. And with Yurio out there, my chances of winning any major competitions from this point forward are less and less. He’s only going to get better. You know that. You know he’s better than I am.”

Viktor shakes his head, tears stinging his eyes again. He can’t help it.

“I _don’t_ know that!” He snaps, angry and hurt. “Yura isn’t better than you Yuuri! You… you both make each other better. You’re equals out there! Why don’t you believe in yourself?!”

“I do believe in myself Viktor. You gave me that belief. But I’m also just trying to be realistic about this. Yurio’s eight years younger than me. He isn’t even in his prime yet. And now with everything, with what we’re… we’re facing in the coming months, and you unable to coach me right now, I just don’t know how viable it is to keep going with my career.”

“No. _No Yuuri_. Don’t use me as your excuse! That’s not fair! That’s not fair to either of us! I can’t coach you. Okay. Yes. You don’t need me to coach you! You’re talented enough to win with any coach Yuuri. Yakov can coach you. Or if you wanted to go back to Celestino, you could. There’s any number of good coaches here in Russia, if you wanted to choose.”

“Viktor, I…”

“Damn it, Yuuri! You can’t quit! I won’t let you!”

“It’s not about quitting Viktor!” Yuuri’s voice rises loudly, almost viciously, and Viktor feels his throat close up, flinching back at the unexpected outburst. “It’s about priorities! _You’re_ my priority Viktor! Did I want to win a World Championship? Yes! Did I want to win an Olympic Gold medal? Of course! I wanted to make a mark in history, like you’ve done several times over Viktor! But none of that, _none of that_ fucking matters because I almost lost you! You almost _died_ Viktor, and you’re still just trying to recover from that, and if I abandoned you now just to go and try to win some fucking medals, I wouldn’t ever be able to forgive myself! I don’t care about any of that stuff when I know that you’re hurt and suffering and scared! I just want to make sure you’re alright! I want to make sure you’ll still be here, because I can’t…”

Yuuri pauses, shaking his head as his eyes fill suddenly with tears. He reaches a hand up, wiping violently at them.

“I can’t lose you Viktor. God damn it, don’t you get it? My life would be over if anything happened to you!”

Tears build thick in Viktor’s own eyes, blinding his vision. He doesn’t even realize he’s pulling at his own hair until he feels the sharp pain in his scalp, his breath coming too quick and shallow in his lungs.

He and Yuuri were yelling at each other. They’d never yelled at each other before. Not like this. Oh, God…

“You aren’t going to lose me Yuuri. I… I’m right here. I’ll stay with you no matter what, I… I promise.”

“I know. I know you will Viktor, just… with everything, once your bones are healed and you needing to go through physical therapy, and now with the police finding…”

Yuuri’s voice dies abruptly, his eyes widening as though shocked. He lifts a hand, covering his mouth, and for a moment, Viktor’s own mind goes blank, staring back at him.

“… What?”

“N-nothing. Nothing, just… look, let’s get you dried off and dressed. Okay? We’ll just…”

“You said something about the police? About them finding something? Yuuri… what? What are you talking about?”

“Viktor, I can’t… let’s not… not talk about this right now. I wasn’t supposed to, God, I wasn’t…”

Yuuri is starting to stammer, his eyes casting away again, and Viktor knows something’s going on. He remembers suddenly what Yura had said before, about them needing to tell him something, and suddenly his mouth feels dry with nervousness.

“Yuuri… tell me. Please.”

“… Yakov needs to tell you.” Yuuri says quietly after a long moment. “He knows more than I do at this point. It was… we were trying to figure out how we were going to do it.”

“… Yuuri, you’re scaring me.” Viktor says desperately. He is scared. He doesn’t know what’s going on, and he and Yuuri had basically just had a fight, and now Yuuri didn’t want to tell him whatever it was that had happened. Viktor couldn’t remember a time when Yuuri had been this reluctant to tell him anything, except very early on, when they’d first really met one another. 

“Vitya… don’t be scared. Oh, this is my stupid fault. Just… come on. Let’s get you dressed, and then we’ll all talk. Okay? Please Vitya? I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

There’s a knock on the bathroom door then, and Yuuri straightens.

“Katsuki?” Yakov’s voice comes through, muffled and low. “I’ve left the clothes you requested out by the door. Is… is everything alright in there?”

“Yes. Yeah… th-thanks Yakov. We’ll… we’ll be out in just a few minutes. Thanks.”

Yuuri turns back to Viktor, looking him in the eye. He reaches out, cupping his cheek in his palm, sliding it up to brush the wet strands of Viktor’s hair back up off his forehead.

“It’s going to be okay Viktor. Alright? I promise.”

Viktor shakes his head, hot tears sliding down his cheeks.

He wants to believe Yuuri. Oh God, he wants so much to believe him. But it felt so much like things were coming apart at the seams.

“… Please don’t quit Yuuri.” He says, his voice coming out weak; frail and trembling. 

And he isn’t even sure anymore what he means.

If it’s Yuuri’s skating…

If it’s himself…

//

“They found the fucking bastards who did this to you!”

It’s Yura who finally says it, jumping up from the couch, eyes wide and voice loud.

Yuuri and Yakov sit frozen and stiff, looking up at the boy with shocked, worried faces, and Viktor blinks up at him too.

For an instant, his brain can’t register the words.

“… What?”

“The cops! They found the fuckers who attacked you! They arrested them!”

“Yura, for Christ’s sake!” Yakov snaps suddenly. 

“He needs to know!” Yura whirls, gesturing wildly at Yakov and Yuuri both. 

“We were going to tell him, you idiot boy! We wanted to do it the right way!”

“What right way?! You either tell him or you don’t! What the fuck!?”

“Guys, look…” Yuuri starts, trying to calm them down.

The three of them dissolve into back and forth bickering among each other, and Viktor’s brain finally catches up to what they’re saying.

“Stop…” he says, but none of them seem to hear him, continuing to argue, to yell at each other. Like he’s not even there.

“Stop.” He says again, louder. Still, they keep at each other.

Viktor’s head is starting to swirl, dizziness making his sight go fuzzy, a loud ringing in his ears. He feels sick, made worse by a sudden swell of confused panic. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t understand anything that’s happening today. 

Things had been going so well at the rink earlier. Everyone had been so kind, and he’d felt an almost kind of relief, being back in a place so familiar to him. Almost… almost a kind of hope.

But then, after they’d gotten back home to the apartment, everything had started to come apart. He’d humiliated himself in front of everyone by losing control of his bladder. Yuuri and he had… had fought. Yuuri had told him he was going to quit skating. And now… now Yura said they police had… they’d found the men who… who… and they were all yelling at each other, and he wanted them to stop but they… they weren’t listening. They couldn’t hear him. Or they… they didn’t care, if they did… they…

He squeezes his eyes shut, the burning sting of tears threatening at their backs. 

A low whine at his side, and he can feel Makkchin pressing her snout to his knee.

He can’t handle this anymore. He can’t stand it. He can’t…

“I said STOP!”

All three voices cut at once. The silence is overpowering as the three of them stop, and turn, and look at him.

Viktor looks back, taking in their shocked, surprised faces.

He shakes his head, feeling his expression crumple, his vision blurring with the welling of tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters.

“… This isn’t about you.” He says, voice quiet and wavering. “This isn’t about any of you. S-so why are you acting like I don’t even matter in any of this?”

“… Vitya, that’s not…” Yakov starts after a moment of stunned silence, but Viktor cuts him off with another, hard shake of his head.

“No. It is. You… you’re screaming at each other about how to… to tell me this, like I’m not even here. You don’t even ask me what I’m thinking, or… or f-feeling! You’re just concerned with who’s right and who’s wrong!”

“Viktor, we were… were just worried about how you’d take the news. We didn’t want to upset you.” Yuuri starts.

“Then why not ask me?! I’m right here! I’m right here in front of you! You… I… I humiliated myself in front of all of you earlier! Yura, you… you knew I had to use the bathroom, but you forgot about me, and I couldn’t hold it. And now you don’t tell me that the police have found the men who attacked me because you… you think I can’t handle it? I feel like a child, and you… you treat me like a child! But I’m not! I’m a 30-year-old grown man! Okay? I know I’m not… not always so smart. I know this. I know there are parts of me that _are_ like a child. I try to control them, but I can’t. I can be stupid and… and immature and too trusting. I know I’m embarrassing. I know I embarrass the people around me sometimes, even though I try not to. But I’m not… I’m not so stupid that I don’t know when I’m being talked down to, or… or treated like I’m somehow incapable. Okay. I know what everyone thinks of me. I know everyone thinks I can’t take care of myself, and maybe… m-maybe that’s true sometimes, but listen… listen to me, all of you! I’ve lived on my own since I was 17 years old. I started choreographing my own programs when I was 16. Programs I was winning with. I’ve handled all my traveling and contracts and sponsorship deals since I was 18. Yakov, you know this. I’m not a complete idiot! You don’t have to treat me like I am!”

Viktor’s breaths come hard and fast, too loud in his own ears as he finally runs out of words to say, staring up at the three other men in the room.

His skin feels hot with embarrassment at his outburst as he takes in their stunned faces, but he doesn’t regret what he said, even so. He doesn’t regret it because… because it was true. All of it. And he doesn’t want to be pitied. He doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him, or… or look at him like he’s pathetic. He still had some pride left, despite everything. He did.

“… Okay.” Yakov says after what seems forever, and Viktor blinks. Hot tears roll down his cheeks, and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away as his coach steps closer, bending down so that he’s eye level with Viktor. He reaches out, taking hold of his hand, squeezing it gently.

“Okay.” He repeats. “You’re right. Vitya, I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. I should have just told you. I should have trusted that you would want to know. That you were strong enough to hear it. I’m sorry. It was my own foolish weakness that made me panic when I heard. I didn’t want to hurt you. Not today, when you seemed to be having such a good day. Will you forgive me?”

“… Yakov.” Viktor curls his own fingers around his coach’s hand, squeezing back. “Of course. There’s nothing to be forgiven. From… from any of you.” He looks up to Yuuri and Yura both. “I understand you were just trying to protect me. I understand that’s all it is. Just sometimes… when you worry too much about a thing, it blinds you to what you were worried for in the first place. Don’t be afraid to tell me things, please. Any of you.”

Yuuri’s eyes shine bright, welling with his own tears, and he steps closer, banding down beside Yakov and placing a hand on Viktor’s knee.

“Okay Vitya.” He says. “Okay. Then, there’s something else you need to know.”

He glances at Yakov, and Yakov nods stiffly at him.

Viktor looks between them, uncertain, fearful despite himself and all he’d just said.

“Vitya, they… they say you need to testify. In court. They say in order to put the men that did this to you away for a long time, you need to testify in front of a jury. In front of them.”

Viktor feels his mouth go dry, his throat closing up suddenly, head dizzy.

“T-testify?” He breathes. “W-when?”

Yakov shakes his head.

“Not for a few months at least. The police told me they’re still gathering evidence to build their case. But… there’s one other thing I haven’t mentioned yet either. Viktor they… they have these men in custody, but they want you to come in and identify them if you can. They say if you can do that, even if they’re able to post bail, they would have grounds to continue to contain them, and have them marked as a flight risk.”

It’s Yuuri who reacts first, turning and staring at Yakov with wide, horrified eyes.

“They want him to come in and _identify_ them?!” He starts, unable to mask the alarm in his voice. “What does that mean? That he would have to be in the same room?”

“No, of course not.” Yakov shakes his head again. “They told me they would be in another room, and that Vitya would only have to see them through a two-way mirror. You’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see you.” He finishes, looking back to Viktor.

Viktor doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to see those men again. He doesn’t want to be in the same room or… or anywhere near them. God… Oh God…

“When? When do they want him to come in?” Yuuri asks.

“Tomorrow, if possible, they said.”

“Tomorrow!?” 

“They want to positively identify them as soon as they can, to eliminate any risk of their getting out. Viktor, they really need this from you. I… I know it’s frightening, but they swore to me you won’t be in any danger. They won’t even know you’re there.”

Viktor knows he needs to say something. To speak. But his voice feels suddenly trapped in his throat. He stares back at Yakov like an idiot.

“Can we go with him?” Yura asks. 

“Yes.” Yakov replies. “They told me we can all be with Vitya for the process. That means we’ll be right there in the room with you Viktor. You won’t be alone. You understand?”

Viktor nods, though the action feels somehow detached. Separate from himself.

He doesn’t want to do this.

“Do you agree then? I’ll take care of informing the station chief if you do, and he’ll set up a time for us to come in tomorrow.”

He wants to say no. He wants to say no, he doesn’t agree. He doesn’t want to go in. He doesn’t want to see those men. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

He nods anyway, a sickening dread swirling in his stomach at the realization that he’s just agreed.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Viktor is faced with a nightmare...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter included references to rape/non-con. No rape or non-con actually happens, but it's mentioned and there's the threat of it.

“Thank you for agreeing to come in Mr. Nikiforov.” 

The station chief is a large set man, tall and slightly overweight, and he reaches out a meaty hand to shake Viktor’s own.

Yuuri watches as Viktor takes the offered hand, his own seeming all the more thin and delicate by comparison, his grip weak.

Yuuri has his hand on Viktor’s shoulder; can feel him trembling slightly.

This was a bad idea. Yuuri had thought so since yesterday, when Yakov had told them what was being asked of Viktor. That belief made only more firm by the fact that Viktor had hardly slept at all last night, kept awake by his own nerves and fear. Yuuri had stayed awake with him most of the night, and the two of them were exhausted now. 

He isn’t sure how Yurio and Yakov faired last night, after everything. Neither of them looked very fresh though, that was certain.

Yurio in particular seemed on edge, standing stiff with his arms crossed tight over his chest, his features frozen in a harsh, unhappy expression. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the apartment half an hour ago. Hadn’t said anything since making it to the police station and being brought into this room.

Viktor doesn’t reply, only nods his head in a vague acknowledgment, before the chief goes into an explanation of what’s going to happen, and what to expect.

Yuuri can only half listen as he takes in the room. It’s dimly lit, with no real furnishings beyond a simple wooden desk and chair, which goes ignored against the room’s farthest back wall.

Across from it is a two-way mirror, and Yuuri can see clearly through it into another room, completely empty save for a back-wall sporting measurements in both centimeters and inches. 

He feels his stomach tighten as he realizes that, in a few minutes time, they’re going to bring out a group of four men to stand against that wall and ask Viktor if they were the ones who attacked him. Who nearly killed him.

He feels almost nauseas with sudden anxiety, and he glances down at Viktor, not able to imagine what it is he’s feeling now. 

Why the hell did they have to do this? From what Yakov had told him, it sounded like the police had plenty of evidence. That they were certain these were the right men. Why did they have to make Viktor go through this at all?

“So, I’m sure Mr. Felstman explained to you already, but what’s going to happen is, we’re going to bring out the four suspects and have them stand with their backs against that wall there.” The chief gestures towards the two-way mirror. “We simply want you to look at them for as long as it takes you to know whether you recognize them as the men who attacked you or not, Mr. Nikiforov. That’s all. The whole process should hopefully only take a few seconds.”

“They won’t be able to see us?” Yurio asks, voice tense.

The chief glances at him, shaking his head.

“No. They won’t. And no one’s told them what it is they’re being brought out for, so they have no way of knowing that you’re here to ID them. Still, I do have to warn all of you, these men… they’ve been arrested before, some for violent crimes, so they have experience in the system. It’s… likely they’ll understand what it is that’s going on, and they may in some way try to provoke a reaction, if they guess they’re being ID’d.”

“What do you mean, they’ll try to provoke us!?” Yurio snaps, finally speaking. 

Yuuri wants to ask the same thing, but his voice doesn’t seem to want to work. He wants suddenly to call this whole thing off. Wants to take Viktor out of here.

“It’s only a possibility. I’m just warning you. These men are hardened criminals. Not surprising, considering…”

The chief trails off, but Yuuri doesn’t need him to finish to know what he’d been about to say.

Instead, he crouches down beside Viktor, taking hold of his hand and squeezing tight.

“Are you okay?” He asks him, keeping his voice low.

Viktor doesn’t reply for a long moment, and Yuuri can see him swallow thickly, before giving a weak nod.

Yuuri’s about to ask if he wants to change his mind. If he says yes, he doesn’t care what the police say, he’s taking Viktor out of here.

“Alright, they’re bringing them in now. Mr. Nikiforov,” the chief starts before Yuuri can even ask. “please, look as carefully as you can at the men. I’ll ask you if you recognize them as the ones who attacked you last October. If they are, you only have to either nod, or say yes. Do you understand?”

Yuuri feels Viktor’s fingers wrap tighter around his own, his palm sweaty, a tremor working through him.

“Y-yes.” He stammers out. His voice sounds hoarse with fear, and Yuuri feels his own lungs press tight with increasing anxiety.

He isn’t ready.

He isn’t ready at all.

It’s like some sort of surreal dream, as the sound of a door opening from the other side of the glass rings in his ears, and he watches as four separate police officers escort four men into the room, lining them up against the back wall to face the two-way mirror.

The men are handcuffed, and Yuuri doesn’t know why he hadn’t expected it. From Viktor’s description of them before, to the police. 

He’d said they were big. He remembers. Tall, he’d said.

He should have expected it, then.

But he doesn’t.

The size of them… God… oh God…

They’re, all of them, well over six feet. The tallest reaches just past the 196 cm mark. Almost… almost 6 feet five inches. The shortest right around 190 cm. 6 feet two. They all look well over two hundred pounds. The tallest maybe two fifty. They’re massive. Their size dwarfing Viktor. 

Their heads are shaved, their short sleeves exposing muscular forearms covered in tattoos. Yuuri’s eyes fall along the plain, stark image of a swastika, standing out in thick black lines along the tallest ones left forearm, and he feels sick.

Skin heads, his mind supplies for him, and suddenly it all makes such horrible, brutal sense. What they did. Why they did it. 

These are them. These are the men who almost… almost killed Viktor. Who had meant to kill him.

Yuuri isn’t prepared. 

Unbidden, his mind conjures up images of them, these four men. He sees them, towering over Viktor, ganging up on him, when he wouldn’t have had a chance against a single one, and oh God, Viktor… his sweet, beautiful man, he must have been so _scared_. Alone when these four monsters attacked and beat him nearly to death.

The tallest of them stares straight ahead at the mirror, staring right at all of them, and Yuuri sees his lips curl up into a smirk, his eyes a cold, dead blue, and he can’t take it. Oh, God, he can’t…

“Mr. Nikiforov, are these the men who attacked you?” 

He hears the chief’s voice. Only it sounds far away, like it’s coming from another room.

Yuuri forces his eyes from the men, unable to look at them a moment longer, his gaze sweeping up to Viktor, and he sees Viktor, staring frozen, unmoving at the glass.

His eyes are wide in naked shock, and Yuuri becomes abruptly aware of how his earlier trembling has grown into violent shaking.

“Viktor?” He starts, and can hear how his own voice wavers badly.

Viktor doesn’t reply. Not to him. Not to the chief. 

He sits there as though paralyzed, unblinking, and Yuuri watches as tears well suddenly in his eyes, slipping down his face.

He isn’t breathing.

Alarm spikes in Yuuri like a bolt of lightening, and he’s on his feet in an instant, moving around Viktor, his hands on his shoulders.

“Viktor! Viktor, look at me! Look at me Viktor! You need to breathe!”

“What’s wrong with him!?” Yuri starts, voice spiking with fear. 

“He’s having a panic attack.” Yuuri snaps out. “We need to get him out of here. Yakov…”

The old coach doesn’t need to be told twice, moving behind Viktor and taking hold the handlebars of his wheelchair. 

The police chief is saying something, but Yuuri isn’t listening. It doesn’t matter, whatever it is. He needed to help Viktor. He needed to help him _now_.

Yakov turns Viktor’s chair, and is already pushing him out of the room, Yuuri and Yurio fast on their heels.

Once they’re out in the hallway, Yuuri kneels down in front of Viktor again. He reaches up, taking hold of his face in his hands.

“Viktor, please, _please_ baby, take a breath. Come on, do like me.”

He demonstrates, pulling in a deep breath, counting to five and letting it out slowly. He does it several times, keeping his gaze on Viktor the whole time, until at last Viktor blinks, and his eyes seem to focus, seeing Yuuri. Fresh tears roll down his cheeks, and then finally, _finally_, he sucks in a harsh, ragged breath, and then another, and another, the sound loud and painful.

Yuuri feels his shoulders sag in overwhelming relief. He falls forward, his head resting against Viktor’s lap, and he begins to sob.

//

Something flashes in Viktor’s mind, and he remembers. He remembers, as his eyes fall across the forms of the men. He remembers things he had forgotten. 

He doesn’t want to. God, almighty, he doesn’t want to…

_The grip around his wrists is crushing, threatening to break the delicate bones beneath the skin, and Viktor gasps as he’s pushed down against the frozen, snow covered ground, flat against his stomach and chest. He feels his arms stretched out in front of him, pinned to the ground above his head, and he can’t stop the ragged scream which breaks free from his throat at the sudden agony which flairs up his left arm, into his shoulder. Something was wrong. Something was broken. Badly broken._

_“Listen to this faggot. Already screamin’ for it!”_

_“He wants it that bad, huh? All these queers are the same. Fuckin’ whores.”_

_The man pinning him to the ground is straddling his hips, sitting on top of him, and he leans down.  
Hot breath against the back of his neck, against his ear. _

_“What is it bitch? Thinkin’ of that chink boyfriend of yours? Bet you wish it was him in my position, huh? Bet you’re fantasizing him fuckin’ you up that tight little ass of yours, huh? Like this?”_

_The man begins to rut against him, violent and hard, and Viktor chokes out a startled cry, his cheek sliding against the rough, ice covered concrete beneath. No. God no, don’t… not that. Don’t let that happen. Please, please, please. God, please…_

_“Or maybe you like this better?”_

_He feels the man let go of one of his wrists, reaching around, forcing his hand underneath Viktor’s hips. Thick fingers groping and cupping suddenly at the at his crotch._

_Panic explodes in Viktor’s chest._

_They were going to rape him. Oh God, oh God no. No, no, no…_

_“Yo, get that belt off him. Shit looks expensive like the rest of his junk.”_

_The hand groping him moves away, working at the buckle on his belt._

_Viktor’s mind is white with terror, and he opens his mouth to beg them to stop. To give them anything. More money. Whatever they want. But his voice isn’t working. All that comes out is a mangled garble of sound, and he hears the men around him laugh._

_“Look at all that blood comin’ out of his mouth.” Someone above him says. “Sick.”_

_“Here, stick this in it. He looks like somethin’ out of a horror picture.”_

_The sound of something tearing, and Viktor feels a hand bury itself in his hair, jerking his face up off the ground. A moment later, and something is being forced past his teeth, into his mouth._

_“There ya go Nikiforov. You can suck on your boyfriend that way.”_

_More laughter, and Viktor feels the man above him unclasp the buckle of his belt, pulling it through the loops of his pants and free._

_“This thing really holdin’ your slacks up, huh? Look how fuckin’ skinny this princess is.”_

_“Fuckin’ pansy ice dancers. Can’t believe these fags call themselves athletes.”_

_Viktor falls slack, blood thick and nauseating on his tongue, washing down his throat, and he closes his eyes, vision not working anyway. He breathes out, the sting of blood in his nostrils._

_They were going to kill him. They would rape him, and kill him, and he’d never see Yuuri again. And Yuuri would find out about what had happened in the morning. Yuuri would find out, oh… oh God…_

_He doesn’t want Yuuri to find out._

_Doesn’t want to do this to him…_

The memory washes away, and suddenly Yuuri is in front of him, his warm hands on his face, telling him to breathe. He needs to breathe.

He does, the sound of him pulling air into his lungs loud and harsh, and he hadn’t even realized he’d stopped breathing at all until that moment. And he’s sucking air greedily then, desperate and terrified, and Yuuri collapses against him, beginning to cry.

“Viktor, Viktor are you okay?!” Yura is there, standing just behind Yuuri, and Yakov too, his face looking suddenly somehow older. Worn with worry. 

Viktor blinks up at them, still gasping for breath.

He doesn’t remember coming back out here, into the hallway. He doesn’t remember what happened at all, after… after they brought those men out.

It was them. 

He hadn’t been able to describe them to the police before. Whole moments from the attack had been missing, he realizes. The doctors had said he might experience memory loss. But he hadn’t thought he had. Not really. Not until… but the moment he saw them, he remembered their faces. He remembered their smell. Remembered what their voices sounded like. Their laughter. Everything. He remembered everything, suddenly.

No, he thinks desperately. No, he isn’t alright. He isn’t. 

“Vitya,” Yakov reaches out to him, freezing halfway through the motion, unsure.

Viktor shakes his head, the warm wash of tears down his face.

“… It’s them.” He chokes out, his voice thick and wavering. “It’s them.”

“You’re certain?” The police chief is there. “Those are the men who attacked you Mr. Nikiforov?”

Viktor nods.

Yes. Yes, he’s certain. He knows. He knew the moment he saw them.

“Can you provide a written statement to that acknowledgment? You only need to sign your name.”

Viktor nods again. His hand lifts, pressing against his mouth.

He feels unwell. Oh, God, he feels sick.

Fear grips his heart, twisting and tearing at it. 

They hadn’t… no… no, he would have remembered, if they’d… 

But he’d believed it was going to happen. He remembers the terror of it, how certain he’d felt, that they would rape him. He can still feel that man’s hands on him, groping him. Can feel the harsh, cruel thrusts of his hips against his back, the crushing grip of his hands, wrapped around and pressing down on his wrists. He’d been so sure, and he’d never… never felt that kind of fear in his life. To think he would die was suffocating enough. That fear. To think they would… would violate him too… 

They hadn’t… He’d blacked out after they’d smashed that bat against his head, but Yuuri had told him he’d been fully clothed, when he found him, save for his jacket and shoes being gone, and his belt now, he remembers they’d taken. And the doctors would have mentioned… they would have mentioned if anything like that happened, after he’d lost consciousness. He’s sure of that. 

But the feeling he’d had… the certainty that they would, that remained. Remains. It unravels in the pit of his stomach now, and he can’t… 

There’s no warning, really. The corners of his vision fill suddenly with dark spots, and in the next instant his head feels so light. Dizzy.

He doesn’t know what happens then. Only that the world around him goes black.

//

“Oh God, he’s fainted!” Yakov starts, and Yuri doesn’t remember ever hearing the old coach sound more alarmed.

Doesn’t remember ever feeling more so himself.

Viktor’s eyes roll up into the back of his skull, only the whites visible for a moment before he slumps sideways in his chair, unconscious.

Yuuri is up in an instant, frantically grabbing and pawing at him, his face stricken with terror, anxious, almost violent energy making his movements sharp and frantic.

Yuri stands back, frozen and helpless as he watches Yakov move in, and then the police chief, gathering around Viktor in shock and concern.

Yuri blinks.

He can’t stop seeing those men.

Their faces…

Their faces had been so _mean_.

Yuri liked to think of himself as a tough kid. Fuck, he was a tough kid. This sport wasn’t kind to those who couldn’t handle it. Had a way of chewing you up and spitting you back out. You had to be strong to stay in it for as long as he had. He hadn’t had the easiest childhood, either, with his shitty parents and everything. 

He liked to think of himself as somebody who would stand up for himself in any situation. He’d never had a problem talking back to whoever if they pissed him off. Never had a hard time getting in anyone’s face.

He’d been upset, then, after everything that had happened with Viktor. Not _at_ Viktor, necessarily. But he hadn’t understood why Viktor hadn’t… hadn’t tried _harder_, to fight back, against the people who had attacked him. 

The police had tried taken samples from under Viktor’s nails, he remembers, trying to see if he’d maybe scratched any of the men, to see if they could get a DNA match or something, but there’d been nothing. Viktor hadn’t done anything to defend himself, and Yuuri remembers being so confused, almost hurt by that realization.

He’d put it down to Viktor not having enough pride. Stupidly, foolishly, he’d convinced himself that Viktor hadn’t fought back because he was too nice and too passive. Had told himself, over and over, if it had been him, if he’d been in Viktor’s position that night, he would have fought tooth and nail. Would have done everything in his power to beat his attackers back.

He’d convinced himself that that was true, until just a few minutes ago.

Until he saw the men with his own, two eyes.

They were monsters. Massive, muscular men, the shortest of them several inches taller than Viktor himself. Each of them must have outweighed him by a good sixty and more pounds. And their faces, their _eyes_… 

Yuri had dealt with his share of bullies at school. Kids who thought figure skating was a pansy sport, and that only “pansies” did it. Kid’s who’d mistaken him for a soft touch, because he was short and skinny. Those same kids shut the fuck up after getting popped in the face just once. 

These men weren’t like that.

Their eyes were cruel, glowing with hate and ugliness. Yuri had never looked at someone before and felt real fear.

He’d felt it back there, in the observation room. They couldn’t see him, or Viktor, or Yuuri, or Yakov. But it had still felt like they were looking through the glass, right at them, and Yuri had felt, in that moment, afraid for his life. Had felt certain, in that moment, that if they were able, those men wouldn’t hesitate for a second to kill all of them with their bare hands. Didn’t doubt that those men were very much capable of doing so.

Yuri wanted to kill them. He wanted to tear their fucking ugly faces off their fucking skulls. That desire hadn’t lessened, despite it all. He’d imagined doing just that countless times before today.

He knows now he couldn’t though. After seeing them. He knows he’d be no match.

He wonders, now, how it is Viktor had survived at all. He wonders, and thinks it’s a miracle, that he somehow had, despite what those men were.

Oh God, what must Viktor have felt out there, on that night? When he found himself surrounded by them? When he realized what their intention was? He must have been so, so afraid.

And yet, he _had_ survived. Despite those men trying to kill him. Viktor had survived.

Because he was strong. Because he was… was the most courageous person Yuri had ever known.

He hates himself for ever thinking Viktor was weak. For ever thinking he didn’t fight back because he wasn’t tough enough.

What a fool he had been. What a complete fool.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the wet warmth of tears slipping down his cheeks, and he reaches up a startled hand, wiping at his face as he watches Yakov lift Viktor up in his chair, the police chief waving smelling salts under his nose.

Viktor wakes within seconds, his eyes coming slowly open, a soft moan slipping past his parted lips.

He looks confused, disoriented for a moment, and Katsuki kneels in front of him, taking his face in his hands.

“Vitya,” he says, voice urgent, scared. 

Viktor blinks down at him, his eyes unfocused for what seems too long, before recognition sparks in them.

“… Yuuri.” He starts, voice sluggish and low. “… What happened?”

“You fainted Viktor.” Katsuki tells him. He slides his hand up, pressing it against Viktor’s forehead. “… How do you feel?”

Viktor blinks at him a long moment, and Yuri can see him swallow several times, the action seeming slow and difficult.

“… Can we go home now Yuuri? Please, I just… I want to go home.”

“Of course. We’ll go. We’ll go now.”

“Mr. Nikiforov, I know this has been a difficult experience for you, and I’m sorry to ask again but… you said you would sign a written statement for us, identifying the four men who attacked you. Would it be possible for you to still do that, before you go home again? It would help us to keep these men detained and locked up.”

“Is that okay Viktor?” Yuuri asks when Viktor doesn’t reply, just stares up at the chief.

“We already have the statement written up. I just need an officer to print it out. It should only take a minute or so.” The chief supplies.

“O-okay.” Viktor agrees after a moment. “Okay, if… if it won’t take long.”

The chief nods, excusing himself from their company, promising to return with the statement in just a moment.

Yuri finally seems to regain his mobility, and he finds himself lurching towards where Viktor sits, holding onto Katsuki as though his life were dependent upon it.

“Viktor…”

Viktor starts, looking up at him.

“Yura…?”

“I’m sorry.” Yuri says, his voice harsh, and he doesn’t care that he’s crying still. Doesn’t bother to wipe the tears from his face. “I’m sorry.”

“… Yura, I…”

“This shouldn’t have fucking happened to you! Those… those bastards, they’re… they’re not even human. They’re fucking monsters! Damn it… God… God damn it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry Viktor!”

He can’t control it anymore, a stupid sob breaking past his teeth, and he turns away, covering his face with his hands as he begins to cry uncontrollably. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he should be mortified. But he’s not. He can’t feel anything but this awful, helpless rage and pain and regret.

“Yura… oh, Yura, don’t… don’t cry…” Viktor’s voice wobbles behind him, thick with his own tears, and it only makes Yuri cry harder.

A heavy arm comes around his shoulders, and suddenly he’s being pulled against Yakov, the old coach hugging him tightly.

Yuri turns, pressing his face to Yakov’s shoulder, his fingers burying in his coat, and he lets himself go.

“It’s alright.” Yakov says, squeezing him tight. “It’s alright boy.”

But it isn’t, Yuri thinks. It isn’t alright. It hasn’t been alright since any of this happened.

Maybe it never had been. Not for Viktor. 

He was his best friend. Oh God, Viktor was… had always _been_ his best friend. It was like he was just realizing that, somehow. That Viktor had always been there for him. He was remembering so many moments, so many times during his own, often lonely childhood, when Viktor had just… _stayed_ with him, and… and talked to him, and just been so _kind_. 

He’d failed Viktor. He’d failed to help him. To protect him. To be there in return. So… so many times. All the years he’d known him, and Viktor had been alone and suffering, and he’d known, he’d known. And he’d failed him.

But Viktor had never failed him. Not once. Not ever.

_“Hey…”_

_Yuri’s head snaps up, eyes wide._

_Viktor’s standing there, in the doorway, looking back at him, his lips pulled into a vague frown, brow furrowed. His long hair is out of its ponytail from earlier, falling over his shoulders, nearly down to his waist, and he looks like some kind of gorgeous, ethereal angel, with his perfect fucking face._

_Yuri wipes quickly at his eyes, embarrassment turning his own face red at being caught like this. He’d been sure nobody saw him come in here. How the hell had the idiot known?_

_“W-what the fuck do you want!?” Yuri snaps, turning his face away, still wiping at his eyes._

_He hears Viktor shift, moving into the locker room. He steps closer, finally stopping a few feet back, and Yuri can feel his eyes on him, watching him._

_God, why the fuck did Viktor always have to_ do _this?! He was so fucking_ lame. _Didn’t he get that?!_

_“… Are you alright?”_

_“I’m fucking fine! J-just get the fuck out of here, you fucking dork!”_

_Viktor, predictably, doesn’t budge, and Yuri can feel his temper rising._

_“… You had a hard time out there today.” Viktor says, his voice soft._ Sympathetic. _Yuri swears he’s gonna deck him. “Did something happen?”_

_Yuri scowls up at him._

_“Oh, so you noticed, huh?! Gee Viktor, you’re so fucking smart, aren’t you? I fall on a few jumps, and suddenly something’s gotta be wrong, right? People can’t just have off days?! God, you’re such an idiot!”_

_He expects Viktor to react somehow. To at least show some kind of hurt, or anger, or frustration, but he just keeps looking back at him with that concerned expression, and it only makes Yuri angrier._

_“You couldn’t land any doubles even, when I know you’re more than capable at almost every triple except the axle.” He says, in that same, soft voice. “And your footwork was really sloppy. You don’t usually have any trouble with those things.”_

_“What the hell do you care!?” Yuri hisses, jumping up from the bench. He strides towards Viktor, trying to ignore the way he has to crane his neck all the way back just to look up at his face. “Mr. Fuckin’ perfect, right?! You never fucking mess up, isn’t that right?! Never make any mistakes! So someone else isn’t so perfect all the time and something’s gotta be wrong! You’re such an arrogant asshole Viktor!”_

_Again, he expects some kind of reaction. Again, Viktor only stands there, passive and silent, looking back at him._

_“Jesus, what the hell is_ wrong _with you!?” Yuri screeches. He lifts his hands, shoving them against Viktor’s chest as hard as he can. Viktor barely has to take a step back, and Yuri growls, charging at him, throwing his whole body against him. Viktor stumbles finally, and Yuri keeps pushing until his back hits the wall. Yuri takes the chance, beginning to pound his balled fists against him, his anger exploding into rage._

_“Fuck you Viktor! I f-fucking hate you! Don’t you get it?! Why won’t you leave me the fuck alone!? I’m not you’re fucking friend!_ Nobody’s _your friend! You’re so fucking embarrassing! E-everybody thinks so! Everybody thinks you’re a fucking dork! But I guess you’re too_ fucking _stupid to see that, huh!? Why do you keep trying to hang around me? What are you, s-some kind of fucking pervert!?”_

_He keeps hitting Viktor, over and over, until finally he feels his wrists caught in the other skater’s grip, stopping his assault. Viktor’s hold isn’t hard. He grasps his wrists loosely, just enough to keep him from hitting him again._

_“Get the fuck off me!”_

_Yuri rips his arms away, and Viktor lets him go, not moving as Yuri stumbles back from him, staring up at him with wide, startled eyes._

_Viktor looks back. He doesn’t even look flustered, or upset at all, and Yuri hates him so much._

_“You’re crying.” He says gently, and Yuri starts, humiliation choking his voice a moment. He reaches up, fingers pressing against his wet cheeks, and he turns away, horrified and disgusted with himself._

_Fuck… fuck, he can’t stop. He can’t stop crying. Why the fuck does this have to happen? In front of fucking_ Viktor _of all people. Jesus Christ…_

_“It’s okay to cry Yuri.” He hears Viktor say. “Do you want to tell me what's wrong?”_

_Yuri can’t help it as a harsh laugh pushes past his teeth._

_Unbelievable._

_“God, there really is something wrong with you, isn’t there?” He snarls, keeping his back turned. “I j-just fucking insulted the shit out of you, and you’re still acting like you_ care.”

_“… I do care Yuri. You’re my friend, even though you say you aren’t mine. You don’t have to be. But… you can talk to me, you know? Whatever it is. I can’t promise I’ll be able to help, but I can try. Whatever’s going on. I’ll try to help, if… if you want me to. Or… if you really just want me to go, I will. I don’t mean to embarrass you Yuri. I know I’m not very cool.”_

_Yuri can’t believe this guy. He really can’t._

_He’s 12 years old. Viktor’s 24. He thinks, anyone else that much older than him would have backhand him for talking the way he just had to Viktor. For being so disrespectful. He doesn’t even get why someone who was technically an adult gave this much of a shit about just another pipsqueak skater under Coach Yakov. Especially when Viktor was the fucking star of the whole club. His fucking countless gold medals and trophies stuffed the display cases out front, everyone else’ awards basically an afterthought in the face of so much dominance._

_Even Coach Yakov hadn’t seemed to notice or give much of a shit when Yuri had stormed off the ice in a huff, barely holding back tears after falling again and again and again on every jump. Even falling on his step sequences a few times._

_But Viktor had noticed. _

_And he’d followed Yuri. Was cutting in to his own, invaluable practice time to check on him, and see if he was okay._

_Yuri doesn’t get this guy. He really doesn’t. Viktor was a fucking superstar. He had no reason to give a shit about some stupid little kid who wouldn’t even be on his radar as a competitor for at least another 3 or 4 years._

_He stands, still and stiff for a moment, wrapping his arms around himself._

_He wants to tell Viktor to fuck off. To leave him_ alone.

_But somehow… suddenly, he thinks, he doesn’t want to be alone. Not now. Not right now. Not after this morning, with his mother coming to his and Grandpa’s apartment., saying all the shit she had, getting into a huge fight with Grandpa and threatening to take him with her, to move to some remote hellhole in the middle of Russia, thousands of miles from St. Petersburg. _

_Grandpa had promised him he wouldn’t let that happen, no matter what, but Yuri hadn’t been able to put it out of his mind. The fear that somehow, his mother would take him away from everything he had built here. Take him away from Grandpa, and his skating…_

_She had no right. No fucking right! She didn’t even know him! Hadn’t… hadn’t ever stuck around for long enough to know him._

_Damn it…_

_He can’t help the fresh tears which well up in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks, and his arms wrap tighter around himself, shoulders hunching up around his shoulders._

_He doesn’t say anything for long seconds, and he hears Viktor shift behind him, moving closer._

_“Yura…” he says gently, and his hand is suddenly on Yuri’s shoulder, and Yuri doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He turns and throws himself against Viktor, wrapping his arms around him, beginning to sob against his chest._

_He feels Viktor stiffen for a moment, shocked, but a moment later he relaxes, and Yuri can feel his arms come up around him, hugging him tightly back._

_Yuri starts blubbering, spilling everything that had happened that morning, with his mother, and Grandpa, and the huge, blowout fight the two of them had had. How his mother threatened to take him away._

_Viktor doesn’t say anything, only continues to hold onto him, until Yuri dissolves into sobs so violent, he can’t form another word, and Viktor holds him tighter still._

_They must stand there like that for five minutes solid before Yuri feels spent and exhausted, slumping against Viktor’s chest, his sobs reduced to pathetic sniffling. Jesus, he’s probably… probably gotten snot all over Viktor’s expensive ass training clothes._

_If Viktor minds, he says nothing, instead shifting around until he has an arm around Yuri’s shoulders, and he guides them towards the benches, lowering the two of them to sit._

_Yuri feels like an idiot, his face hot with humiliation, keeping his eyes trained on the floor._

_“… That was wrong of her.” Viktor says after a while, his voice quiet. “To do that to you.”_

_“… Sh-she’s a fucking bitch!” Yuri snaps, angry, though he can’t tell if it’s at her now, or himself for making such a fool of himself in front of his fucking_ idol.

_Viktor is quiet for a long moment, and Yuri chances a glance up at him. He’s looking straight ahead, his eyes seeming distant. Lost, even. He’s frowning. He looks sad, Yuri thinks. He looks so sad._

_“… My mother didn’t want me either.” He says at last, and Yuri starts, shock crashing through is system. _

_“What?” He asks._

_Yuri had never seen Viktor’s parent’s, that was true. But he’d never really thought anything of it either. Viktor was an adult. It only made sense, kind of, that they wouldn’t be around. _

_Viktor’s lips pull up into a smile, the expression fragile, wavering at the edges, and at last he turns to look at Yuri._

_“Well, you know, my mother and father, they kicked me out of their home when I was 13. Just a year older than you are now.”_

_Yuri blinks up at him, his voice lost to him for a moment as he tries to register the words. _

_When it finally returns, all he can manage to blurt out is “Why?!”_

_Viktor smiles at him again, and still he looks so sad._

_“They didn’t like what I am, I guess. They couldn’t accept it.”_

_“What? The best figure skater on the planet!?” _

_Viktor laughs, shaking his head._

_“No. They didn’t care about that, really. It was because…”_

_He pauses, looking away._

_He shrugs a moment later._

_ “Ah, but the reason doesn’t matter. Only, I tell you this because I was very frightened too. I didn’t have anyone I could go to, except Yakov of course. He took me in and gave me a home. I guess… you could say Yakov was to me like your Grandpa is to you Yuri. The people that really love you, and that deserve your love in return, they don’t abandon you, no matter the reason. Your Grandpa won’t ever let you be taken away. You know this, yes? He loves you so much. And so do I, and Yakov. If your mother did try to take you, all of us would fight to keep you here. We would fight with everything we have. But… I don’t think you should worry so much about this. Yes? Your mother… I think, maybe, somewhere in her, she loves and cares for you very much, but… maybe she loves herself too much to make a good mother. She would think more of you and your feelings, if she shared more of that love. She wouldn’t use you to try and hurt your Grandpa. I think maybe that is all it is. She wanted to scare Nikolai.”_

_Yuri swallows, reaching up at wiping the drying tears from his face, something like hope blooming in his chest._

_“You think so?” He asks._

_Viktor looks back to him, and this time his smile is more genuine._

_“Yes, I do. And if I’m wrong, like I said, me and Yakov and your Grandpa will fight for you to stay, no matter what. We’ll do everything in our power. And, Yuri, I think you know, Yakov has much influence, here in Petersburg. Russia values its champions, and there would be none without Coach Feltsman. But I want you to remember, you deserve better Yuri. You deserve respect. One day, I know, you will be a great champion. But more than that, you know, already you are a great person. You have so many people that care about you so much, because they sense this about you. Yes. You understand? You’re worthy of great love because you have a great heart.” _

_And suddenly, just like that, all the fear which had been pressing down on Yuri’s lungs all day seems to let go, and it’s like he can breathe again._

_Because of what Viktor had said. Because it was the truth._

_Somehow, he just knows… He’s telling the truth. Knows he can trust in what Viktor’s saying. Because he can trust Viktor. He realizes that, suddenly. Feels it with so much certainty, it’s there, deep in his bones. He can trust Viktor. With anything. And Viktor will always do his best to help and support him, to try to understand. _

_The relief of that is… he doesn’t even know how to put it into words. _

_Hadn’t even realized how suffocating it was, until the weight of thinking he had no one to talk to had been suddenly lifted._

_He can talk to Viktor. _

_He isn’t alone._

_He swallows, and thinks he needs to say something. Needs to… to say thank you, or… or that he’s sorry, for all the awful things he said to Viktor before. For being so mean to him. For being cruel, even, when Viktor was… God, when he tried so hard… was so kind… But he can’t seem to find his voice again, and he feels stupid and small for how he’d lashed out, ashamed, and Viktor is smiling, standing suddenly and reaching his hand out._

_“Hey, you want to go get some ice cream? I promise not to tell Yakov if you don’t!”_

_Yuri blinks._

_“… O-okay.” He stammers, and Viktor’s smile widens into a blinding bright grin._

_“Great! Come on! I know this great place, they have the best Pistachio you’ll ever taste!”_

It was just one of countless times when Viktor had… had been there for him. Had helped him, in some way. Talked him through some shit he was going through, or… or just been there to hang out, singlehandedly fighting off Yuri’s loneliness, it seemed. And it… it didn’t matter, how much shit Yuri gave him. How much grief, or how many insults he hurled at him. And Yuri remembers with painful clarity all the cruel, ugly things he’s said to Viktor in the past, for whatever stupid, selfish reason. Sometimes for something as ridiculous as simply being in a bad mood. Sometimes because he couldn’t get something right in his skating, and he would take Viktor’s attempts to help him and use it as an excuse to blame him for everything that was going wrong, instead of himself. Sometimes for no fucking reason at all, just because he wanted to see if he could hurt Viktor.

Sometimes he did, he knows. Sometimes he would see the flash of pain in Viktor’s eyes, when Yuri had gone and said something particularly unkind to him, and Yuri would hate, would fucking _hate_ himself afterwards, and wonder what the hell was wrong with him.

He wouldn’t use his youth or immaturity as an excuse. Not anymore. 

Viktor hadn’t deserved that. Any of that.

Like he didn’t… didn’t deserve what was happening to him now. What had been happening to him for months now.

Like he didn’t deserve the absolute shit show his life had been since he’d been a little boy.

Yuri doesn’t understand this world. He doesn’t understand.

Why was it like this? Why were there people who wanted to hurt other people? Why were there people who wanted to hurt _good_ people, like Viktor? Why did a good person like Viktor have to get treated like shit by so many, when all he ever did was give and give and give everything. Everything of himself, and in return he’d gotten spit on and shit on and hit and kicked and called disgusting names and almost fucking beaten to _death_ by a group of fucking _monsters_.

God, he can’t stand this. He can’t. He doesn’t want to be in a world like this.

“Yura… Yura, oh…” He hears Viktor now, and he sounds so frightened, and this isn’t what Yuri wanted. To make Viktor even more upset, because he couldn’t control his own, stupid feelings.

He needed to get out of here. He wasn’t helping. Was only making everything worse.

He pulls out of Yakov’s hold, moving away, nearly running as he makes his way down the hall, towards the station lobby.

He can hear Katsuki calling out after him, but he ignores him and keeps going.

He knows he’s being a coward. He hates himself for it.

But he can’t be here now. Not now. 

He can’t bear it anymore.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up guys. It's been a busy week. Anyway, let me know your thoughts if you have a chance and I hope you enjoy!

It takes more than a month after Viktor’s come back home before the doctor’s deem his bones well enough healed to finally remove the casts, and for him to at last begin physical therapy.

Yuuri had, of course, by then secured specialists for Viktor to work with, physical and mental.

Today marks the second week of physical therapy for him. They’ve been attending sessions three days a week with Viktor’s new therapist, a young man named Vasyli.

Things have been… rough, if Yuuri was going to use a single word to describe it. Especially today.

Viktor had shown surprising flexibility still from the start, two weeks ago. Though maybe not so surprising, when one considered he’d had a lifetime of training, part of that training including a level of limberness far beyond that of a regular person. Viktor could still do splits easily, could still sit with his legs stretched out fully in front of him and grab hold of his feet. Hold it. 

It was his strength that was a problem now.

Each of these sessions started off the same, with Vasyli beginning Viktor off with a series of pool exercises. 

It offered a kind of resistance training that was important to building back up Viktor’s atrophied muscles, the therapist explained, without the damaging impact or pressure of weight training. 

Yuuri had made it his habit to join Viktor in his exercises, hoping his presence would offer support and encouragement. Viktor told him it did. Yuuri knew, also, Viktor felt more comfortable, if it was Yuuri holding onto him, instead of Vasyli. He didn’t say that out loud. He didn’t want to offend the therapist. But Yuuri thinks the man probably knows anyway. 

So Yuuri takes Vasyli’s spot most days, except for when he needs to demonstrate some new exercise, taking it upon himself to hold Viktor by the waist in the water while they go through the motions.

That block of the physio lasts from half an hour to 45 minutes, before it’s on to stretches and mild resistance training using elastic straps. No weights yet.

Viktor is weak. That wasn’t surprising, given he’d spent over three months either bedridden or wheelchair bound, and his bones had suffered such severe blunt trauma that, even though healed now, they weren’t like they had been. 

They’ve tried things like holding a push-up position on his knees, stretching an elastic strap out as far as he’s able and holding it for a few seconds. Vasyli routinely checks Viktor’s strength by pushing down on his arms and legs and asking Viktor to push back. Viktor tries, and he’s often left shaking and sweating from the effort, unable, really, to resist the therapist’s own strength.

It’s painful for Yuuri, to watch this. 

Viktor had always been strong. Yes, he was lithe and slim. But the speed and power of his skating wasn’t an accident. Viktor could move the way he did on the ice because he was gifted, but also because he was physically powerful. In top physical condition, he’d been able to do seven sets of a hundred and fifty push-ups without stopping, two five hundred sets of sit-ups, a thousand jumping-jacks, four sets of chin-ups in sets of twenty-five. He could run ten miles in just about fifty minutes, averaging about five-minute miles. On ice practice, he would go for hours and hours, well after everyone else had wrapped up their sessions and gone home for the day. He was a physical specimen, if Yuuri had ever seen one. 

Now, he couldn’t do a single push up. Couldn’t do more than a handful of crunches. Couldn’t stand on his own two legs yet, let alone walk or run. If anyone gave him even a little shove, he would go over onto his back.

Yuuri tries not to let his pain show. The last thing Viktor needs it to see is his own grief. Not when Viktor often bursts into tears when they make it back home in the afternoons, overcome with fear and despondency at his own, physical state.

He isn’t used to this. Isn’t used to not being able to perform simple physical tasks. He’s used to having a body which can do things no normal person ever could. Things most professional figure skaters can’t, even. 

It’s horrible.

Vasyli assures them Viktor is making progress. So far, it’s hard to see.

Today though was something different. Vasyli said Viktor was ready to try standing using the parallel bars. 

Just standing.

It had sounded simple enough, and Viktor had even seemed excited before they’d started, eager to get back on his own two feet.

But Viktor is _weak_, and that fact has never been more apparent than now.

Yuuri has taken over from Vasyli as Viktor’s spotter. His job, the therapist tells him, is to help Viktor up out of his wheelchair and hold him upright until he can get a good grip on the parallel bars. Once Viktor feels confident enough to hold himself up, Yuuri is supposed to let him go.

Except Yuuri can feel Viktor trembling in his hold as he hauls him up out of his chair, Viktor grasping hold of the bars in each hand. Can see the way his body shakes with the effort, even with Yuuri holding him tight around the waist and shoulders. Yuuri doesn’t feel confident about this at all. He doesn’t think Viktor does either.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks him. “Do you want to sit back down?”

Viktor’s features are pulled tight, his jaw set as he focuses on grasping the bars. Tremors run through his shoulders, down his arms, and he gives a jerk shake of his head.

“N-no, I… just give me a minute. I want to try.”

“Okay.” Yuuri relents.

He glances over at Vasyli, who’s standing on the other side of the bars, watching intently. His own expression is worried, unsure, like maybe he overestimated where Viktor would be at this point.

“O-okay, you can let go.” Viktor’s voice pulls Yuuri’s attention back to him. He frowns.

“Are you sure? Viktor, you don’t have to…”

“I want to try.” Viktor says again. “Please, let me try.”

Yuuri pulls in a breath, swallowing.

“Okay. Okay, I’m gonna let you go now. Okay? Ready?”

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want Viktor to get hurt. What if he can’t catch him quickly enough and he hits his head or something?

Viktor nods, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. 

Yuuri hesitates as long as he can, before, reluctantly, he loosens his arms around Viktor’s waist and shoulders, pulling away.

For a moment, it seems like Viktor might actually be alright.

He holds himself up, even as his arms shake noticeably in the effort, and Yuuri watches, time seeming suspended a moment.

And then Viktor tries to take a step, and Yuuri can see as his knees collapse under him, folding and dragging the rest of his body with them, his hands ripped away from the bars. It’s like Yuuri is paralyzed, watching helplessly as Viktor crumples to the floor, Yuuri’s brain screaming at him to move, to help him, but he can’t react quickly enough. By the time he does, it’s too late, and he sees Viktor, a heap on the ground, tipping forward and barely catching himself on his hands before his face smacks against the rough linoleum flooring. A weak, pained sound slips past his lips with the impact, and Yuuri feels his stomach drop.

“Viktor!” Yuuri half-shouts, dropping to his knees beside him, his hands reaching instantly out to catch and hold him, despite the uselessness of the effort.

Viktor breathes hard, a thin layer of sweat already glistening off his forehead, his hair slightly damp. It’s grown just to the base of his neck now, his bangs needing to be swept back behind his ears. Yuuri sees him swallow thickly, his eyes squeezing shut, his face twisted into a grimace, clearly hurting.

“D-did you jam your arm or something?”

“… I don’t know.” Viktor says after a moment, his voice clearly strained, laced in discomfort. 

Yuuri feels his heart hammer inside his chest, worry spiking, and his eyes cut to Vasyli, imploring the man to do something.

Thankfully the man is already moving into action, ducking underneath the bars to squat in front of Viktor, reaching out and hooking an arm around his waist.

“It’s okay Viktor, let’s get you up and back over to your chair so I can check you out. Alright?”

Viktor gives a stiff nod, his teeth clenching. His eyes are glassy, full of pain, and Yuuri feels vaguely sick.

“I’m just gonna loop your arm around my shoulders here, okay? And then we’re gonna stand. Alright?”

Again Viktor nods, breathing out harshly through his nose.

“Is there anything I can do?” Yuuri asks, pushing himself to his feet, watching. He feels useless, a voice screaming at him inside his head that he should have been quicker. Should have caught Viktor before he fell. Guilt squeezes at his throat.

“Bring his chair closer, maybe?” The therapist asks, and Yuuri doesn’t hesitate, jogging around to where the wheelchair still sits, just a few feet back from the parallel bars, rolling it right up to where Vasyli holds Viktor up. He locks the breaks on it, holding onto the handles.

“Okay, alright, easy then.” Vasyli coaxes as he lowers Viktor gently down into the chair, not letting go until he’s sure his patient is safely seated.

Viktor’s face screws up in pain, despite Vasyli’s efforts to be careful, and Yuuri fears powerfully that he might have rebroken something. The fall hadn’t looked that bad, but…

“Okay, let’s get him out to the floor. I want to check him out.”

Yuuri nods, lifting the chair’s break and walking backward with it, until they’re out more in the open. The therapist follows, and Yuuri steps back, giving him room to do his job.

He takes Viktor through a series of motion tests, asking periodically to tell him if this or that hurts.

Viktor doesn’t need to say it does when Vasyli pulls his left arm across his chest, and Viktor gasps out sharply, his teeth clenching together.

“S-stop… stop!” He rasps, and Vasyli quickly does.

“That hurts?” He wants to confirm, and Viktor nods, the sweat thicker on his forehead. 

Vasyli doesn’t say anything, just nods, before continuing on, taking Viktor through a series of a few more motions, prodding and pocking at the area around the joints of his shoulders and down his arms as he goes.

Yuuri watches fearfully, anxiety twisting in his gut, until finally he seems to finish, leaning back on his heels and smiling vaguely.

“Well, the good news is there doesn’t seem to be anything broken.” He says, and Yuuri releases a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding. “Obviously, we’ll want to get you in for some x-rays just to make sure, but I can’t feel any sort of fractures or anything. I think most likely you’ve simply pulled a muscle.”

“That’s good. I mean… it’s not good, but it… it could have been worse…” Yuuri starts lamely, relieved, but still angry at himself for letting Viktor fall in the first place.

Vasyli smiles up at him, pushing himself to his feet and nodding.

“Unfortunately, that’s going to put an end to our session today, and you’ll probably need to hold off on any of the home exercises I’ve assigned, at least for a couple days until we can get you checked out by someone more qualified.”

“Right, of course.” Yuuri agrees. “Is that okay Vitya?” He looks down at his fiancé, slumped in his chair. Even from this angle, looking over his shoulder, he can read the dejection in Viktor. The disappointment. It’s only emphasized when Viktor doesn’t answer him at all.

Worry and frustration coil in Yuuri’s gut, and he forces it back down. He wasn’t going to allow himself to get angry. Viktor was disappointed, and he had every reason to be. Today had been meant to be a step forward. A progression. Instead, they found themselves with a setback, the extent of which they wouldn’t even know for the next, few days. Hopefully Vasyli was right and it was just a pulled muscle. If it was something more serious… Yuuri doesn’t really want to think about that possibility.

Things at home with Viktor had been… strained, lately.

That was being generous, Yuuri knows.

Viktor had been depressed the last week or so. A real, full blown depression this time. 

Yuuri hated himself some days, when he would admit to himself that it was sometimes hard to handle. Especially because he knew how his own bouts of severe anxiety could make him impossible to deal with. That had always been one of his great fears. That he would end up unintentionally driving away the people he loved because he just couldn’t seem to control his emotions. Couldn’t “calm down”, as people had always used to tell him. People who didn’t understand that it was a real medical condition. 

Just like Viktor’s depression. Yuuri reminds himself of that every day. Every time Viktor refuses to get out of bed. Refuses to eat. When his communication is reduced to monotone, monosyllabic replies, and he can’t seem at all to smile.

Yuuri bites his lip, checking his watch and seeing it was just past 1:30 in the afternoon. Viktor had an appointment with his therapist in about an hour and a half. Yuuri quietly hopes he’ll just agree to going, without needing to be convinced, like last week. 

He knows the chances of that are looking increasingly slim though.

“Okay, well, how about I text Yuri and he can meet us for lunch before your appointment with Dr. Sokolova?” He tries, hoping to distract Viktor from the disappointment. “Since we’re getting out of here a bit early?”

“… Fine.” Viktor answers after a beat, his voice low and dragging in the same way it had been for days now. Disinterested. Despondent. So exactly the opposite of how Viktor was when he was… okay. When he was himself. 

//

“Singles competition starts today.” Yurio says around a mouthful of lettuce. “… I thought we could watch. I signed us up for that NBC gold package or whatever it’s called, so we can get the American broadcast through the PlayStation.”

Yuuri feels his shoulders stiffen, glancing nervously Viktor’s way.

They’ve been out to lunch nearly an hour, and Viktor has barely touched his food. Barely spoken a word the entire time, either to him or Yurio.

There’s no visible reaction from him now over Yurio’s suggestion, and Yuuri isn’t sure if he should be relieved, or more concerned.

The Olympics had started about a week ago. The figure skating competition two days ago. He’d completely forgotten that the singles competition started today. 

He’d been trying to avoid thinking about it, really. 

No one says anything, and he hears Yurio sigh in frustration.

“Jesus, what is even going on with you two!?” He growls. “Did it go bad at physio today or something?”

Yuuri’s mouth falls open to answer, only, surprisingly, Viktor beats him to it.

“I’m sorry Yura. Yes… things went badly today, but it’s no… no excuse to ruin your day. Yours either Yuuri. I’m sorry to you too. I know I’ve been unbearable lately. I’m sorry.”

Yuuri sees the tight expression flash across Yurio’s face. The way he bites the inside of his cheek to stay quiet. 

Things had been tense lately, between all three of them. Yurio particularly had been having difficulty dealing with Viktor’s depression. He’d never spent more than a few days at a time with Viktor, and it was going on a month and a half now where he’d been living with the two of them in the apartment. He wasn’t used to it. Wasn’t used to these long bouts of Viktor’s lethargy and seeming apathy. Wasn’t used to prolonged exposure to Yuuri’s sometimes overflowing anxiety. It was wearing on the teen, Yuuri knows, and he had been feeling bad about that for the last week especially.

He hadn’t thought that Viktor was even aware, given his general unresponsiveness lately. But of course, that had been foolish of Yuuri to assume. Just because Viktor hadn’t been able to motivate himself lately didn’t mean he’d stop _seeing_.

“If… if you want to move back in with your Grandpa Yura, it’s okay.” Viktor says, looking up at the younger skater, and Yuuri feels a swell of hope that maybe, despite today’s setback at physio, Viktor was coming out of his depression.

Yurio scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid old man. I’m staying, whether you like it or not! Katsuki can’t handle everything alone!”

Yuuri smiles at him then.

“Thanks Yurio. I maybe haven’t said that enough. You’ve been a huge help, you know?”

“Whatever. Listen, do you guys want to watch the competition today or what? It probably won’t be live or anything, but as long as we stay off the skating forums and news sites, we shouldn’t get spoiled. We can watch it while eating dinner or something.”

“I’d be into it if Viktor doesn’t mind.” Yuuri answers, glancing to Viktor. “What do you think Vitya?”

Viktor pokes absently at his food for a long moment, the corners of his mouth pulling in a slight frown.

“… Okay.” He answers finally, sounding less than enthusiastic. Yuuri understands. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of watching the other skaters compete at the Games when all three of them had been meant to be there too. But Yurio seemed like he really wanted to watch, and he figured it was a small price to pay for all the help the younger boy had given these past weeks.

“It’s a plan then. We’ll watch this evening, after Viktor’s therapy session. We can start dinner and put the competition on.”

“Cool!” Yurio actually smiles, his attention returning to his lunch.

Yuuri doesn’t fail to notice the way Viktor keeps shoving his own food around his plate, listless, his eyes staring at nothing, it seems. Distant and lost.


	24. Chapter 24

**“Hello everybody! I’m Terry Gannon, here with my colleagues, Olympic Gold medalist Tara Lipinski and two-time US National Champion Johnny Weir. We’re proud to be here for you as, today, we get underway with this Olympic Games first day of competition in both the men’s and women’s figure skating singles competition! **

**Before we continue with our coverage of the competition, however, we wanted to take a moment to address a story which, in recent months, has both shocked the world of figure skating, and left it in a state of, what some might call, free fall. A story I’m sure all our viewers are very familiar with by now, that of course being the brutal assault late last year on three-time Olympic gold medalist, Viktor Nikiforov, a man thought by many to be the greatest figure skater of all time.**

**The story is familiar by now, of course, but to those of you watching who may not know, in October of last year, Mr. Nikiforov, following gold medal performances by both himself and his fiancé, fellow skater, Yuuri Katsuki, was on his way home late at night for what they had planned as a celebratory dinner, when he was confronted by a group of four assailants in the streets of his hometown of St. Petersburg, Russia, and brutally beaten in what was quickly assessed to be a homophobic attack. As many of you know, Mr. Nikoforov is the only, openly gay athlete currently residing in Russia, along with is fiancé, of course, and has been seen by many in the LGBTQ community as both a trail blazer and champion of gay rights. The shockwaves sent not only through the skating world by the attack, but also the LGBTQ community have, unsurprisingly, had long-reaching implications, and continue to be felt, especially on a day like today, where not only the absence of Mr. Nikiforov is keenly felt, but that of his fiancé, Mr. Katsuki, and their fellow rink-mate and competitor, Yuri Plisetsky, both of whom, along with Nikiforov, were vying for Olympic gold this year. And, given their 2nd and 3rd place rankings in the world by the ISU, right behind Nikiforov, were all but guaranteed a spot on the podium at these games. **

**Johnny, I want to turn to you first. I know you’re someone who is a self-proclaimed lover of Russia and Russian culture, has spent a lot of time, in fact, in Russia, visiting there, training there… As yourself an openly gay athlete and also someone who, in fact, competed against Nikiforov during your own career, this attack must have struck very close to home for you?”**

**“Oh, God, Terry, yes. Just… I really have no words to describe what a terrible, terrible tragedy this has been. Viktor was… is someone I’ve known for many years. Someone I’ve both competed against as an athlete and someone who I’ve always considered a dear friend. We rarely got to see each other outside of competition, of course because of the distance between us, but I can remember so many times, visiting Russia, particularly St. Petersburg, and spending the night at Viktor’s flat there when I couldn’t book a hotel room, for whatever reason. In fact, just this past year I got to spend a weekend at his home with him and his incredible fiancé, Yuuri. They were both so lovely and welcoming to me. But that’s always how Viktor’s been. He was just always so incredibly open and generous. I can’t tell you…”**

**“He in fact was a fan of yours, when he was coming up in the ranks. Isn’t that right Johnny?”**

**“So he says! Although, when you’re as gifted as Viktor, it’s hard to imagine him ever needing to look up to anyone! I remember watching him as he was coming up through the Junior ranks and feeling a real… well, I guess the word is fear, for when he finally graduated to seniors. I knew we were all done for then!”**

**“You could see how special he was.”**

**“Absolutely Terry. Just gifted beyond words. I mean, here was this fourteen, fifteen-year-old little boy, and he could already do things I could only dream of doing, as a fully-fledged, in my prime figure skater. I mean, he was doing quad toes and quad loops like they were nothing. And my god, his triple axel, even then… it was out of this world. I just thought, there’s no limits on what this kid is going to accomplish. And I guess I was right.”**

**“You first met him at the 2010 Winter games, is that right? Your last Olympics?”**

**“That’s right. Yeah. You know, that was his first Olympics. He’d just graduated to the Senior’s earlier the year before, just a few months before. This 17-year-old pipsqueak. I thought… I mean, he’d taken silver that year at the Grand Prix final, so he was a strong contender coming into the games. I thought, well, he’s going to be full of himself. I thought he’d be this arrogant… well, jerk. I mean, what kid that age wouldn’t be, if they were already so accomplished at such a young age? I know I would have been! And you know how the Russian’s can sometimes be… very rigid. Very… in the zone. Not a lot of time for chitchat, shall we say? And you know, when you first got a look at him… I remember seeing him in the warm-up area of the arena, the day before the short program. He was doing some basic ballet exercises. And he looked just like this… otherworldly nymph or something. He was gorgeous and ethereal and looked completely unapproachable!”**

**“Intimidating?”**

**“Oh my God… he was just this tiny, stick figure of a boy, but he looked so incredibly confident, with this incredible, waist length silver hair of his. Not gray, or white, like he’d prematurely aged or something. His hair is just so light blonde that it’s silver. It’s the most amazing thing you’ll ever see. And the bluest eyes I’d ever seen on anyone, and this unbelievably milky pale skin… just, ah, I swear I was immediately in love.”**

**“Woah there Johnny!”**

**“I know! I can’t help myself. But I remember just standing there, watching him for what seemed like forever, actually finding myself too afraid to go up and introduce myself. Here I am, the veteran skater, in my third Olympics, and I’m afraid to go and talk to a 17-year-old kid who’s never been there before. Well, naturally, he eventually noticed me and… I’ll never forget this. He looked at me with these wide, stunned eyes, just staring at me for what must have been a good ten or fifteen seconds, before this huge, huge smile just broke out over his face. This beautiful, heart-shaped smile, and he gasped, and the next thing I know, I’ve got an armful of excitable Russian prodigy. He literally ran up to me and threw his arms around me in this big bear hug, and just… held onto me for a really long time. I mean, this kid didn’t know me at all. Of course, he knew of me, but he didn’t know me, and without any kind of reservation or hesitation, he just gives me the world’s biggest, fiercest hug I’ve ever had. And, I’m telling you Terry, he was just… the sweetest kid. He was so nice. So unbelievably friendly. I remember he just kept going on and on about how much he admired me, about what an amazing skater I was, and how much he wanted to be like me, and he wanted to know if he could get a picture with me and my autograph. **

**I remember feeling actually guilty later, because I’d just made all of these assumptions about him. Like he must be some kind of stone-cold ice diva or something, haha. But he was just so the opposite. Just the warmest, sweetest kid you could ever hope to meet. And I remember, and this really is just a testament to what kind of person Viktor is, he had these gift baskets sent to all of the skaters in the Olympic village. These incredible, expensive gift baskets, right before the competition, that had all these amazing fruits and chocolates and expensive nuts. All of us got them. The men and the women. And each one had this adorable stuffed bear holding a heart that said ‘I’d wish you luck, but with talent like yours, you don’t need it.’ Of course, then he went on to crush us all and take home the gold, haha!”**

**“Amazing. Amazing story Johnny. It sounds like he left an indelible impression on you.”**

**“Oh, Viktor is… I mean, he’s not someone you could ever forget. He’s an amazing, special person. I feel so honored just to know him. You know? And… what happened to him, I can’t… I don’t… excuse me… I’m sorry. I just need a moment…”**

**“Of course Johnny. It’s alright. Tara, let’s go over to you. I know you’re also well acquainted with Nikiforov, even though, obviously, you never competed at the same competitions as him. But you’ve met him numerous times, I know. Do you feel the weight of his absence from these games?”**

**“Undoubtedly Terry. Undoubtedly. Everyone here knows Viktor was the favorite coming in, with of course his teammate Yuri Plisetsky and his fiancé Yuuri Katsuki vying for that position as well. Without the three of them here, I don’t think anyone feels like this is a complete competition. Whoever takes home gold this year isn’t going… I mean, I hate to say this, because whoever becomes Olympic champion deserves it, and has every reason to be proud. But I just can’t help but think that they’re going to feel a… palpable sense of loss, and dissatisfaction, knowing they weren’t able to compete against the best to win that gold, and so… it just won’t hold the same meaning, I don’t think. Of course, the favorite coming in, without Viktor or the others, is Viktor’s close friend, Swiss skater Christophe Giacometti. And I know, if he does win, he plans on dedicating the championship to Viktor.”**

**“When did you first meet Nikiforov?”**

**“It must have been… I think it must have been five or six years ago now. So I haven’t known him as long as Johnny has. But, everything Johnny said, absolutely spot on the truth. You would think… well, because by the time I met him, he was already a multiple world and Grand Prix champion, and a two-time Olympic gold medalist. Had already broken God only knows how many world records. So you would think maybe it would have gone to his head a little. Maybe he would have become a little arrogant. Nope. He was just the most genuine, kindest, most sincere person I think I’ve ever met. Just like with Johnny, I remember he gave me this big bear hug and told me how much he admired me growing up. How he’d watched me win gold when I was fifteen and how over the moon he’d been. How he couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks to whoever would listen. I remember thinking, this kid has the enthusiasm of a child. You know? I mean, there was this incredible, innocent quality to him, even at the age of… he must have been 24 or 25 already by the time we met. Already a veteran of the sport. But he was just so warm and so loving and just… beyond charismatic. I mean, besides his incredible good looks, which Johnny’s already talked about…”**

**“Don’t act like you weren’t overwhelmed by it too Tara!” **

**“Hey, I’m not denying it! I mean, I met him when he was a full-grown man! He was perfectly formed by the time I got to him. So what do you think?! With these amazing, broad shoulders and this gorgeous, slim waist, just perfectly proportioned all over. I was seething with jealousy, wondering why all the best looking ones always had to turn out gay!”**

**“Don’t let your husband hear you say that!”**

**“Oh, he already knows! But… getting more serious again, look… unquestionably, Viktor Nikiforov is the greatest figure skater of all time. His accomplishments speak for themselves. 3-time Olympic gold medalist. Six-time world champion. Six-time Grand Prix champion. It would have been four Olympic golds and 7 world championships, 7 Grand Prix titles if he’d been able to finish the season…”**

**“You say that with no hesitation?”**

**“No hesitation Terry. This man was the first and is still the only human being on the planet able to land a quad axel. At the age of 29. That’s unbelievable. Just unbelievable Terry. The gold was his to lose in all of these competitions. But… beyond that, I think what… what’s important to remember about Viktor isn’t… isn’t his greatness as a figure skater. That goes without question. But… Terry, Johnny started to get emotional earlier, and I’m afraid I’m going to too, because more than anything, what people need to know about Viktor is what a good person he is. Everyone who’s ever met him, who’s ever been friends with him or even just spoken to him in passing, across the board they’ll all tell you the same thing, and that’s that Viktor Nikiforov is just a genuinely, genuinely good person. He’s kind to a fault, and that’s… I think that’s maybe the most devastating thing about all of this. Is that it was that kindness in him which lead to him being assaulted in the first place. It was other people taking advantage of that kindness and using it against him and that just… that is just… so horrible to think about… so cruel and awful and… listen, Viktor, if you’re watching this right now, please, don’t let the actions of a few, ugly, hateful people ruin that kindness that’s so much a part of you. Okay? Please, don’t change because of the cruelty and worthlessness of a few people. You’re a beautiful person Viktor, and I think the whole world needs to know that about you.”**

**“Absolutely, Tara. Well said. Viktor, if you’re watching, we love you so much, and we’ll always be here for you.”**

**“I think, Johnny, from all of us here at NBC, we wish Viktor and his entire family a speedy recovery and we hope we’ll get to see you again soon.”**

Yuuri glances at Viktor from where he’s prepping rice at the stove, a kind of nervous worry twisting his stomach into knots. 

Viktor is sitting on the couch in front of the TV, Yurio sitting beside him. Only Viktor’s not watching the broadcast. Instead has his eyes fixed firmly on his phone, and Yuuri can tell just from watching the way he slides and taps at the screen, opening and closing apps over and over, that he isn’t really doing anything on it. Using it instead as a distraction. As a way to make himself look like he’s busy and isn’t paying attention to what’s going on around him. Yuuri can tell, because it’s what he does when he’s trying to go unnoticed too.

Yurio is frowning at the television screen, seemingly oblivious to Viktor’s own attempts at hiding.

Yuuri had expected them to make mention of Viktor in some way during the competition. It was hardly avoidable, given the gaping, impossible to fill hole Viktor’s and, really, all of their absences from the competitive circuit had left in the skating world. They were the top three skaters on the planet. Yuuri could say that without any sort of arrogance or ego. Literally, the ISU had Viktor at number one, Yurio at number two, and him at number three. He and Yurio had been going back and forth in their world ranking over the past two seasons. So it was hardly a surprise that the broadcast team would make mention of what had happened…

Still, he hadn’t quite expected the outpouring of emotion, or… the intimate nature even of what was said.

Yuuri knew that Viktor made friends of people. Made friends of his fellow competitors, even. He knew that Viktor was in fairly frequent contact with Johnny Weir, along with about a half dozen other, either current, or former professional figure skaters, and that he’d met Tara Lipinski several times. He even knew that Johnny Weir had stayed at their flat more than once. Both before, and after he had met Viktor himself. Hell, the last time Johnny had been over was about 8 months ago, during a visit of his to St. Petersburg. Johnny was an incredibly nice, cool guy, and very smart, and Yuuri liked him immensely. He hadn’t ever met Tara himself, but he was sure he would be able to say the same about her.

He supposes he should have expected them to say something more than just the contractually obligated expressions of remorse and sadness. They knew Viktor. Both of them. They’d sent Viktor cards and flowers while he was in the hospital, and had even messaged him on facetime several times. 

It was sweet of them to tell the stories they had about meeting Viktor for the first time, and how highly they thought of him.

Only… judging by Viktor’s reaction over there on the couch, he’s not so sure if Viktor, given his state lately, should have had to hear it. He looks like he wants the couch to swallow him whole. Like he wants to be anywhere but where he is. 

Almost like he’s embarrassed.

“Pff, where the fuck were they when you were in the hospital, huh?” Yurio’s voice snaps, breaking the tension, and Yuuri feels his stomach drop.

Viktor finally glances up from his phone, his eyes heavy and pained as he looks to the younger skater.

“Don’t say that Yura. They’re good friends.”

Yurio rolls his eyes, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

“Then I ask again, where the fuck were they when you were in the hospital? A real friend would’ve found a way to come.”

Viktor’s frowning now, a visible discomfort lining his features. He shakes his head.

“Not everyone can drop their lives to fly halfway across the world Yura. Johnny and Tara are busy people, with careers of their own. You can’t…”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m sure they mean well and blah, blah.” Yurio cuts Viktor off, flapping his hands. “You’re too fucking nice Viktor. That’s your problem. You forgive people too easily. You should get mad sometimes.”

Viktor doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes casting away, down to his lap.

“… I do get mad.” He finally says, his voice hardly a whisper. “But not at people who don’t deserve it… They were just trying to be kind.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t always trying to look for the good in people, you wouldn’t have…”

Yurio cuts off suddenly, his eyes widening as he swallows down what he’d been about to say.

Shit, Yuuri thinks, as he watches Viktor’s entire frame stiffen, leaning back and looking up at Yurio.

“… I wouldn’t have what Yura?” He asks, and his voice is tight, almost _angry_. It’s bizarre to hear Viktor’s voice like that. Yuuri’s only heard him really get mad on two, maybe three occasions in the time they’ve been together. It’s always a surreal experience, given how bubbly and sweet he almost always is. Even in his bouts of depression, Viktor’s never really angry. Just sad. 

Yurio seems to realize he’s stepped in it, the scowl on his face momentarily wavering, exposing an unsure, almost frightened expression, before it hardens back up into a sneer, and Yuuri can see him resolve to answer before he even does.

He turns fully from the stove, his own mouth coming open to try and stop him, but it’s too late.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have gotten yourself almost killed if you just stopped to consider that not everyone in the world is a _good fucking person_ Viktor!” 

“Yuri, shut up.” Yuuri starts before he can even think, moving across the space between them.

“… You think I don’t know that?” Viktor says, voice still hushed, and Yurio either didn’t hear Yuuri or doesn’t care, because he answers back immediately.

“You sure as shit don’t act like you do!” He hisses. “Everyone’s still just _‘trying to be kind’_, or _‘oh, they didn’t mean it like that’_, or whatever other bullshit excuses you come up with for people acting like assholes. You just fucking… _accept_ everything so _passively_, and its fucking _gross_ Viktor! Where’s your God damned self-respect?!”

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO RESPECT MYSELF YURI!?” 

Viktor’s voice is _loud_, and Yuuri flinches violently at it, his eyes huge with his own shock, mouth abruptly dry.

He’s never heard Viktor yell at anyone. Not like that. He’s never heard Viktor scream at anyone like that. 

Yurio’s own expression must mirror his, his eyes like saucers, mouth hung open in muted surprise.

There’s a brief moment of silence between them all, so tense it feels like all the airs been sucked out of the room. And then Viktor is yelling again, angry, _really angry_, like Yuuri’s never heard him.

“Look at me!” He yells. “For God’s sake, I can’t… can’t do anything anymore! I can’t skate, I can’t even walk!”

“… You just aren’t trying hard enough. You could skate again if you just…” Yurio starts, and Viktor cuts him off viciously.

“I’m trying with everything I have! Don’t… don’t tell me I’m not trying hard enough when all I do is try! I’m not going to skate again Yura! Stop saying that! Stop putting that fucking pressure on me! I don’t even know if… if I’m going to walk again! I’ll be lucky if I do, with all the metal pins and screws in my bones, holding me together! I’ll probably end up needing a cane for the rest of my life, even if I do walk! You don’t understand because you’re too young and your body isn’t worn out yet. My body was already wearing out before… before this. That’s what staying in this sport for as long as I did does. I was already in pain every day before this even happened to me. Now some days the pain is so bad, I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’m half deaf and blind! I’m finished Yura. I’m finished but you won’t… you won’t just let me accept that! You have to keep pushing and pushing and telling me it’s not good enough. That I’m not good enough, and making me feel like more of a fool than I already do every day of my stupid life! Like I don’t know already that I shouldn’t have stopped that night when that man asked me to! You think I don’t think about that all the time? How much I screwed everything up for all of us? But you look at me with these angry eyes like I did it on purpose. And I don’t know why! B-because you wanted to beat me or something? What does it even matter? You’ll surpass me one day anyway. One day soon Yura! You have the talent, you have the will. I can’t be whatever it is you want me to be anymore! I can’t be this perfect person you expect! So just… just leave me alone. Please. Just leave me alone already.”

There’s silence then, so heavy it’s stifling. It seems to stretch on and on without end, and Yuuri finds himself frozen where he stands, his hands pressing against his own mouth in stunned disbelief.

Yurio stares back at Viktor, his own expression flitting between so many emotions, Yuuri can’t tell at all what the boy is thinking or feeling. Shock, obviously, but there’s anger there too, and hurt, and maybe guilt. 

Viktor looks back at him for long seconds, before at last turning away. Yuuri watches as distractedly he rubs his hands along his pants, his shoulders a tense, stiff line.

Whatever had been keeping Yuuri rooted to the spot seems to let go finally, and he lurches forward, closing the rest of the distance between him and the couch, coming around.

Yurio still isn’t saying anything, but Yuuri can see him vibrating with his own tension, and he fears the younger skater is about to explode into a rage of temper. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want the three of them fighting, especially doesn’t want Yurio coming down hard on Viktor.

Viktor lost his temper, that was true, but… it was just that he was going through so much, and Yurio still didn’t always seem to see when he was pushing too much. He shouldn’t have said what he did to Viktor. It had been unkind, and Yuuri can’t blame Viktor at all for getting angry at it. He also knows that Yurio hadn’t meant it to sound the way it did. That he was dealing with his own frustrations and fears, and it had just come out wrong. He needed to say something before the situation devolved further.

“Hey… let’s just… let’s just cool it for a second.” He starts, looking between Viktor and Yurio. “Alright?”

“… Fuck this.” Yurio snaps, jumping up from the couch finally. “You know what, I think I will go back to Grandpas. Since obviously I’m just making everything so much fucking worse!”

“Yuri, don’t… that’s not true!” Yuuri pleads, feeling the situation already spinning out of his control. “Look, things just got a little heated. Alright? We’ve all been under a lot of pressure. Right Viktor?” 

Viktor’s eyes are fixed on his lap, and Yuuri watches him swallow thickly several times. He doesn’t say anything.

“No, you know, it’s fine. Viktor’s right anyway. If he thinks he’s not gonna skate again, or even walk, then he fucking won’t! Just kind of a weird attitude from a fucking world champion figure skater. I mean, usually we’ve got to have a little more will power than that. But hey, it’s cool. I’ll just get my cat and get the fuck outta here. You two seem fine without me.”

“Yuri, that’s not fair and you know it.” Yuuri snaps, finding his own temper spiking at the younger man’s dismissive and cruel words. “Viktor’s doing his best. We all knew this wasn’t going to be an easy process. He just needs time. Alright? He’s right when he says you’re putting too much pressure on him.”

Yurio’s mouth comes open like he’s about to answer, but just as suddenly he snaps it shut, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he looks utterly furious.

And then he’s blowing past Yuuri and Viktor, striding out of the living area, towards his bedroom.

“Yuri!”

For a moment, Yuri stands frozen, uncertain whether he should go after the boy, or stay with Viktor. Glancing to his fiancé, Viktor remains hunched in on himself, his arms wrapped around himself, the tension so tight in his frame he’s visibly trembling.

“… Don’t let him go.” He says suddenly, looking up at Yuuri, his face stricken, fearful. “Yuuri, I… don’t let him go out there by himself. I’m sorry. Please, don’t let him go out there alone.”

“I won’t.” Yuuri shakes his head. “Just… I’m gonna go talk to him. Are you okay?”

Viktor nods weakly.

Yuuri doesn’t hesitate, striding off towards the back, making for the guest room where Yuri had been staying since moving in here.

“Yuri?” He calls as he reaches the still open door, and finds the younger man shoving clothes hastily into a backpack. Somehow he’s already gathered Potya into his carrier.

“Yuri, come on, this is ridiculous.” He tries to make his voice light, even as he feels his heart kick uncomfortably in his chest.

“It’s fine. The old man clearly doesn’t want me around anymore. So I’ll just get the hell out.” Yuri spits back, not taking his eyes from his bag.

“Yuri, that’s not true. He just begged me to come in here and stop you from leaving. He just lost his temper because you…”

“Why? Because I told him the fucking truth!? He’s a grown fucking man, he should be able to handle it when someone’s honest with him!” Yuri spins, glaring at him, his voice rising.

Yuuri can’t help the fresh spike of anger which lances in his chest.

“That wasn’t the truth you told him Yuri! You were cruel. What you said was cruel. Don’t you think he’s been beating himself up enough as it is over what happened? He doesn’t need you or any of us telling him he made a mistake when he already knows that and can’t forgive himself for it!”

Yuri scoffs, turning away, back to his packing.

“Yuri, you can’t go out there. It’s almost ten at night.” 

“What, you think the same things gonna happen to me as happened to him? Well you don’t have to worry, Katsuki. I’m not gonna stop for the first asshole who asks me for an autograph. I’m not that fucking stupid!”

That was it. Yuuri was _pissed_ now. Really fucking pissed.

“Stop calling Viktor _stupid_ Yuri. He’s probably smarter than both of us combined. God, you can be such a little shit sometimes!”

Yuri chokes out a laugh, zipping up his backpack and shouldering it, grabbing hold of Potya’s carrier.

“Yeah, sure. Tell the old man it’s been real. I hope he gets better. Good luck with that.”

“Yuri, you can’t fucking just _leave_ in the middle of the night! It’s dangerous! You can’t…”

“I already called a cab. I’m not walking dumbass. Now get out of my way.”

Yuri shoulders past him, out into the hallway, and Yuuri spins, stumbling after.

“Yuri, _please_! We don’t want you gone! We need you around here! Come on man…”

Yuri doesn’t answer him this time, storming back into the living room and striding towards the front door.

Viktor is still on the couch, and Yuuri sees his face pale with horror as he tracks Yuri towards the front door.

“Yura… Yura, w-wait!” Viktor starts. His voice sounds frantic. Terrified, even, and he pulls himself along to the other side of the couch. “Please Yura, I… I’m sorry! I’m sorry, don’t leave! Don’t go out there!”

“I already explained to your boyfriend I’ve got a cab. It’s already down there waiting. So you can save your breath Viktor. I’ll be seeing you around.”

Viktor’s eyes are wide, wet with tears, and he turns to Yuuri, still chasing after their friend. 

“Yuuri, don’t… don’t let him!”

“I’m trying Viktor. Yuri, come on, please… You’re not thinking this through. You can’t just blame Viktor for this either. You’re going to realize that later and be angry with yourself for acting this way!”

Yuri turns suddenly then, putting his cat down, and in an instant he’s crossed back over, closing the space between the two of them until he’s right up in Yuuri’s face. His hands lash out, fingers burying in the material of Yuuri’s shirt and jerking him forward.

“I fucking mean it pig! Fuck off! Both of you!”

He shoves Yuuri then, hard enough that Yuuri loses his balance, crashing to the floor.

There’s a sharp gasp from Viktor, and Yuuri watches as the younger man turns back around, striding past the couch. Viktor reaches for him, his fingers brushing Yuri’s arm, begging him, and Yuri almost violently smacks Viktor’s hand aside.

He doesn’t say another word, taking Potya up, and in the next moment, he’s through the front door, slamming it loudly behind him.

Yuuri can only stare in shock.

What the hell just happened? 

What the hell was that?

“Yuuri!” Viktor’s voice breaks him from his daze, and he looks up from where he’s still sitting on the floor, seeing his fiancé looking down at him from over the back of the couch, his face white with worry, tears finally slipping free, down his cheeks. “A-are you alright?! You’re not hurt, are you?!”

Yuuri pushes himself up to his feet.

“… I’m fine.” He answers. “I need… I don’t… what should I do? He’s acting insane. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

Viktor shakes his head, wiping at his face.

“… I don’t know either. I shouldn’t have… oh, I shouldn’t have yelled at him. It’s been so hard on him, and I didn’t think. This… this is all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“No, it’s not. Viktor, he’s acting completely nuts. What he said to you was… that was totally uncalled for. And you were just telling him the truth. He needs to understand that, yeah, this is a stressful situation for all of us, but _you’re_ the one who’s going through this. You’re the one who’s fighting. I can’t believe what a selfish brat he’s being!”

Viktor doesn’t say anything for a long moment, turning away. His hands reach up, burying in his silver hair, pulling roughly at it.

“Viktor, don’t. You’re going to hurt yourself…” Yuuri moves to stop him.

“I don’t want to push him away too Yuuri.” He says, his voice almost soundless. “… I’ve never yelled at him before. I think… I think I scared him or something. Oh God, what if he never wants to talk to me again?”

“Viktor, don’t worry about that. He’ll come around, when he realizes what a jerk he’s being.” Yuuri tries to reassure, coming around the couch and sitting with Viktor. He puts his arm around Viktor’s shoulders, pulling him against his side. 

“… He was so angry though.” Viktor says, voice weak. “I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”

Yuuri sighs, his fingers moving up, massaging into Viktor’s hair.

“Yuri needs to grow up.” He says after a long moment. He’s still so angry at the boy. Angry especially for how he spoke to Viktor. He had no right. It didn’t matter how hard things had been lately. Whatever the difficulty for the two of them, it was a thousand times more for Viktor. Yuri needed to fucking get that. “He’s got to learn that this isn’t about him. Not everything is. Just… please Vitya, don’t beat yourself up for this. You were just trying to defend your friends, and yourself, and Yuri’s got to learn to deal with his own issues better instead of taking it out on us, especially you. Look, I’ll call his grandfather’s tonight to make sure he made it back okay, and I’ll try talking to him again tomorrow. Okay?”

Viktor nods after a few, long seconds, turning suddenly and burying his face against Yuuri’s shoulder. 

Yuuri just holds him back, trying to calm his own, racing heart. Trying to push down the swirling rage threatening to choke his throat.

Fucking Yuri… 

Whatever the hell was going on with him… he had no right… no right to do that to Viktor.

No right at all.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my thanks to all my readers and supporters! You guys are the best!

Yuri can hardly see straight for the rage still swelling in his chest, choking his throat as he throws money at the cabbie, not bothering to wait for change as he exits the vehicle in front of his Grandpa’s apartment building.

He can’t remember the last time he felt this fucking _pissed_. It’s almost suffocating, the air in his lungs seeming too thin.

_Fuck_ Viktor, and fuck Katsuki. _Fuck those guy_. 

Viktor was a fucking coward anyway. So fucking afraid of conflict that he just let everyone shit all over him. If that was the way he wanted to live his life, then he could go right ahead.

… Yuri just doesn’t get why the asshole had to yell at _him_. Dumb bastard finally gets angry and he gets angry at _him_, for just telling him the fucking _truth_.

Well fuck that action. Yuri was done. He was done with the whole fucked up mess. Done with having to lie awake at night, listening to Viktor cry. Listening to Katsuki trying desperately, uselessly to comfort him. Done with having to watch Viktor struggle to hold his fork, or his spoon, his fingers spasming and trembling round the utensil, until either Katsuki or he couldn’t stand the sight anymore, coming over to help, having to grasp Viktor’s broken fingers tight and guide his hand to his mouth. 

Done with watching Viktor trying to lift himself into his wheelchair on his own, only to have his meagre strength fail him, crashing him to the floor with a dull, awful thud. 

Done with seeing the broken, anguished expression which more and more frequently now passed over Viktor’s face. The way his eyes stared ahead of him at nothing, distant and blank and flat. 

Done with watching Viktor slowly sink into this pathetic shadow of what he had once been, his depression and resignation turning him into this lethargic, apathetic parody of his former self, resembling the man Yuri had grown up worshipping in appearance only. 

The rest was gone.

Yuri couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t bear it. Watching Viktor slowly giving up on himself.

He was done.

He digs around in his coat pocket for the apartment key, trudging up the staircase to the second floor of the building. 

When he reaches his Grandpa’s door, he tries to be as quiet as possible as he slides the key into the lock. Grandpa would be asleep by now, and he doesn’t want to wake him. Doesn’t want to have to explain why the hell he’s back here either.

When he’d moved out to live with Viktor and Katsuki, Grandpa hadn’t been able to shut up about how proud he was of Yuri, about what a kind, generous thing it was he was doing, helping his friends the way he was.

Yuri didn’t want to have to tell Grandpa about the fight he’d had with Viktor.

Like everyone, it seemed, Grandpa loved Viktor.

“There’s a good boy.” He would always say about him.

Yuri didn’t begrudge him it. 

After all, Grandpa had first met Viktor because he hadn’t been able to pick Yuri up from the rink one day, and Viktor had cut his own ice time short to walk Yuri home. It had been selfless and kind. Like everything Viktor did.

_“Come up and meet Grandpa!”_

_Yuri looks up at Viktor, eyes wide and pleading as the older skater smiles down at him._

_It would be so cool, he thinks, if he walked in with Viktor freakin’ Nikiforov! Grandpa would be so impressed, to see his grandson was friends with the best skater in the world!_

_Some days, Yuri could hardly believe it himself._

_He still doesn’t really know why Viktor bothered talking to him at all. He was the only kid at the rink. Coach Feltsman only took on supposedly gifted students, and there just weren’t that many kids in his age group who were that good. _

_Yuri knew he was. Knew he had talent. _

_But… being around all those Senior division, world class skaters these last, few months had been scary. They were all so good, and Yuri, for the first time since he’d begun skating four years ago, felt like he wasn’t good enough. Like he didn’t belong._

_It didn’t help that Coach Feltsman demanded so much, hearing no excuses. He didn’t care if Yuri was eight years old. He was expected to perform up to a certain standard, and if he couldn’t do it, then he would be cut from the club._

_And then one day, while out on the ice, performing drill exercises, Yuri had seen him. He’d been with Coach Feltsman only about a month at that point, and he knew, of course, like everyone knew, that Viktor Nikiforov was one of the coach’s students. That he was part of the same skating club. _

_Yuri had known it abstractly though. He’d never seen Viktor around, and he knew, also abstractly, that it was because Coach Feltsman’s greatest student was on a vacation after having won his 2nd World Championship just a couple of months ago._

_It had been like getting the air punched out of his lungs, then, when he’d looked up at the boards that day, waiting for further instructions from Coach, and instead standing there, right at rink exit, had been the most incredible looking person he’d ever seen._

_It hadn’t registered right away, who he was looking at. This tall, unbelievably elegant looking man, dressed in one of those stupidly expensive Dale sweaters and equally expensive looking black slacks, with equally expensive looking soft leather loafers covering his feet, a pale blue color unlike anything Yuri had ever seen._

_He was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, talking to Coach, his form so unbelievably lithe and fine cut, his clothes falling perfectly on his frame, like some storefront manikin, his skin so pale it almost seemed to glow, and eyes so startlingly blue that, even from the distance he was away, Yuri could clearly make out their color. It wasn’t until he’d registered the man’s hair, though, that he realized who he was looking at. A blonde so light it was silver, falling down the man’s back to reach just past his waist, silken and shining and thick._

_Viktor Nikiforov. He was looking at_ Viktor Nikiforov.

_Russia’s hero. Her greatest athlete. The greatest figure skater in the world._

_And then the man had turned and looked at him._

_Yuri had frozen, staring wide eyed and gape mouthed, and Viktor had smiled at him, the expression startlingly kind, waving._

_Yuri had blinked, shocked, and then Coach Feltsman had called him over to the boards and introduced him, and this otherworldly, ethereal looking man had turned out to be the friendliest, nicest, dorkiest person ever._

_Over the next few weeks, Yuri had gotten to know Viktor, and it had taken him a long time to reconcile the image he’d had of Viktor, this shockingly handsome, effortlessly graceful, breathtakingly beautiful figure on the ice, with this 20 year old man who more often acted like a young child, excitable and sweet and just kind of cool, even though he was a total dweeb. _

_He talked to Yuri, really talked to him, when no one else at the rink, none of the other skaters, had said more than a handful of words to him the entire time he’d been there._

_Yuri didn’t get it. Still didn’t, really. Viktor was easily the biggest star at the rink. The most famous athlete in Russia. And yet… out of all of them, he acted the least like it. _

_He just seemed like a big kid who wanted to hang out._

_“… Are you sure it’s alright? I don’t want to be an imposition.” _

_Yuri scrunches up his face._

_“What the hell’s an imposition?” He asks, annoyed. Viktor was always using big, stupid words that Yuri didn’t know the meaning of. _

_ “It means something that’s inconvenient, or something that gets in the way of something else.” Viktor answers easily._

_One of the best parts about being friends with Viktor though, Yuri thinks, is that he never made Yuri feel stupid, even when he didn’t know something, or couldn’t do something. He always answered his questions with seriousness, with respect, even, though Yuri still doesn’t understand why Viktor felt the need to respect some eight-year-old kid._

_He stares up at the older skater, disbelieving._

_“Why would you be in the way?! You’re Viktor Nikiforov, Russia’s greatest skater!” _

_Viktor smiles down at him, his pale face tinting slightly red at the cheeks. The expression is almost embarrassed._

_He shrugs._

_“Pff, come on! My Grandpa will think I’m cool if I walk in with you! How many kids are friends with a real, actual famous person!? Besides, he’s a huge fan of yours! I mean, who isn’t anyway?”_

_Viktor laughs, light and tinkling, and it’s bizarre, how that other worldly nature of his comes through like that. Like he’s some kind of fairy or something. _

_“Okay. If it’ll make you look cool. Though I already think you’re pretty cool, even without me hanging around.”_

_Yuri smirks up at him, puffing his chest out._

_Another thing about Viktor. He made you feel good about yourself. Yuri had thought it would have been the opposite. That being around someone so amazing would just be a reminder of how not amazing he was. But… Viktor was so positive, and so generous. He made you feel like you mattered, which… only Grandpa had ever made Yuri feel that way before. No one else…_

_“So you’ll come up?” He asks, hopeful, and nearly shouts with excitement when Viktor nods. _

_Thankfully he’s able to control himself and not make himself look like the world’s biggest idiot in front of his idol. Instead he just reaches out, grabbing hold of Viktor’s hand and hauling him through the building’s front entrance, towards the stairs. _

_Viktor marches dutifully behind him, laughing softly at how aggressively he’s being tugged, letting Yuri have his way._

_“Grandpa! Grandpa! Come look!”_

_“Yura? What is it? Is something wro…”_

_Grandpa comes out from the kitchen, a frightened look widening his eyes, pulling up short when he sees Yuri standing there, still grasping tightly round Viktor’s hand._

_Yuri can see the moment Grandpa recognizes who it is with him, the worried expression shifting into naked shock._

_“… Yura, i-is that…” he stammers, voice breathless, wondering._

_Yuri can’t help the wide grin which pulls at his lips._

_“Hell yeah it is!” He crows. “Viktor, this is my Grandpa! Grandpa, I’m friends with Viktor! Freakin’ cool, right!?”_

_He feels Viktor gently tug his hand free from his hold, and watches, pride swelling in his chest as the older skater moves past him, holding his hands out to Grandpa in greeting._

_Grandpa still looks dazed, his own hand coming forward slowly, and Viktor takes hold of it with both of his, grasping it gently._

_He towers over Grandpa, and Yuri watches as he bends down until he’s closer to eye level with the older man._

_“It’s an honor to meet you Sir.” He says. “Yuri talks of you all day, and I’d hoped to meet you soon. Your grandson is a phenomenal skater.”_

_“Th-thank you.” Grandpa stammers, blinking. “You… You’re Viktor Nikiforov!”_

_Viktor laughs softly._

_“Yes. I think so.” He answers kindly._

_Yuri rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the embarrassment he feels at Grandpa’s behavior, coming up and pushing himself between the two men._

_“Grandpa, I told you Viktor skates at the same rink as me!”_

_“I think maybe we all feel a little lucky to be skating at the same rink as young Yuri here.” Viktor says. “He really is a brilliant talent. He’ll be a champion one day soon.”_

_Yuri feels his chest swell with pride. He still can’t believe Viktor quite means it. How could he? Yuri wasn’t even old enough to compete yet. But he sounded like he meant it, and Yuri felt that. Felt important and like it was true._

_Grandpa’s stunned expression melts into a wide, proud smile of his own, and Yuri thinks he must feel the same._

Viktor had stayed over for dinner that first night meeting Grandpa, and had become a regular guest thereafter, even frequently spending the night. He said he liked spending time at their rat hole apartment. Said he felt comfortable and happy there. He would talk with Grandpa for hours about anything and everything. About obscure shit Yuri had never heard of from, like, a thousand years ago. He would play video games with Yuri, and board games, and he would lose every time and never complain or lose interest. Grandpa fucking _loved_ him. Because Viktor was charming. Stupidly, ridiculously charming, and it wasn’t a fucking _act_. Wasn’t a put on. Viktor wasn’t _trying_ to be charming. He just fucking _was_, and Grandpa had been taken with him right away, because Viktor had been so sickeningly respectful towards him and Yuri both, had been so almost tragically polite and kind, and humble and… Jesus… it was impossible _not_ to like Viktor. You’d have to be some kind of major piece of shit asshole not to like him.

He was a superstar, but he’d never acted like one. Never acted like he was more important than you. He just wanted to hang out and be treated normally. Just wanted a friend. 

Grandpa was gonna be pissed at him for what had just happened.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Yuri knows he’d fucked up. He’d regretted the words that had come out of his mouth back there at Viktor’s place the moment they had left his lips. But then he’d felt so fucking _frustrated_ by the whole situation, with Viktor’s despondency and seeming like he was just… giving up already, and it had already been obvious what he was going to say anyway, and so he’d just… said it. Had been wanting to say it for fucking months, even though he knew it would be awful and cruel and that Viktor didn’t fucking deserve it.

Yuri’s never seen Viktor that pissed off before.

Fuck, he’d never seen Katsuki that pissed either.

But Viktor… Viktor didn’t get pissed. Not like that. He got angry sometimes, like any fully functioning human being. But Viktor got quiet when he was angry. He didn’t yell. He just didn’t talk, and that’s how you knew he was upset. 

He’d finally seen some spark of rage in Viktor, some evidence that Viktor wasn’t just this fucking automaton and all the terrible shit that had happened to him didn’t just bounce off him like bullets off Superman’s chest. But then… that rage had been directed at him, seemingly out of nowhere, and that had _hurt_.

Christ, it had hurt. And he hadn’t thought… 

Okay, fine, Yuri thinks, he shouldn’t have told Viktor the attack had been his fault. It wasn’t. _Of course_ it fucking wasn’t. That isn’t even what Yuri meant. It just came out sounding that way. He just meant Viktor shouldn’t be so fucking _forgiving_, and shouldn’t leave himself so vulnerable to other people because people were fucking shit and Viktor should _know_ that by now. He was a 30 year old _grown fucking man_ who’s own bastard parents had rejected him for being gay, and why the hell was Viktor pissed at _him_ when he was just trying to help and pointing out that if those posers on TV cared as much as they said they did, then they would’ve at least found time to visit Viktor fucking once while he was in the fucking hospital and… 

“Yura? What are you doing back here?”

Shit…

Grandpa is standing there in the threshold to his bedroom, face exhausted with sleep still, eyes blinking against the light Yuri had switched on in the entryway.

Yuri’s voice is stuck in his throat, and for a moment, there’s a shot of panic, not knowing what to do. 

Grandpa’s gaze steadily clears, worry coming into his eyes as he steps out into the hallway, moving closer.

“Yura… what is it? Did something happen? What… what time is it?”

Yuri’s eyes flit to the wall clock hanging visible in the small kitchen, off to the right.

Just past 10:30 PM, it says.

He swallows, moving his gaze back to Grandpa.

“Nothing.” He finally blurts. “Just, uh… I just needed a break. Thought I’d come live here again for a while. If that’s okay, I mean…”

“Yura, you know you’re always welcome here, of course.” Grandpa assures, and Yuri allows himself to relax for a moment, thinking maybe that’ll be it. Maybe Grandpa’s too tired to press him for more answers. “But… I don’t understand. Weren’t you staying with Viktor and his boyfriend so you could help? I know Viktor must still be in pretty rough shape…”

So much for that, Yuri thinks, feeling himself tense back up.

He pretends to be distracted with Potya, placing his carrier on the floor and opening it up, letting his cat free and making a show of fussing over him.

Grandpa, no surprise, doesn’t fall for it.

“Yura, what happened? I know you wouldn’t just leave unless you had a good reason.”

Yuri sighs, resigned to having to explain himself as he finally lets Potya go, pushing himself to his feet.

“… Viktor and I got into a fight. Me and Katsuki too.”

“… A fight?” Grandpa starts, confusion clear in his voice. “You and Viktor?”

The surprise is understandable. 

Yuri made a habit of complaining about Viktor to anyone and everyone. Viktor annoyed him, precisely because Viktor never really reacted to Yuri’s shows of temper. Never took his bait. He always just smiled and indulged Yuri in his immature tantrums, always unaffected and unwilling to be drawn into a spat. Viktor was just too good natured to fight back, even when Yuri was doing everything in his power to piss him the fuck off. 

Of course Grandpa would be surprised, then. Yuri himself had been shocked when Viktor had yelled at him. Had fled in his own, confused hurt. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been so shocked though. He’d pushed and pushed Viktor so many times, always telling himself he wanted Viktor to fight back, but never, really expecting it.

“It was stupid. Just a stupid fight. I just needed to get out of there.”

“Yura…” Grandpa closes the rest of the distance between them, reaching out and taking Yuri’s hand. “You’re upset. Tell me what happened.”

Yuri’s resolve is worth shit, he thinks, as he cracks and just starts spewing, all his frustrations and hurt and anger, at Viktor, at himself, he doesn’t even know. He can’t seem to stop talking though.

“We were watching the figure skating, and those two jerks on TV were going on and on about how sad they were about what happened to Viktor and telling all these stupid stories about him, and I got pissed and said if they cared so much, why the hell didn’t they visit when Viktor was in the hospital, and then Viktor told me I shouldn’t say that, that they were busy with their own lives and blah, blah. So then I told Viktor that he was too nice, and maybe if he stopped making excuses for people always being so shi… I mean, always being so mean to him, then maybe none of this would have happened in the first place, and then he just started yelling at me, out of nowhere! He was yelling at like the top of his lungs and telling me I was putting too much pressure on him, and how he couldn’t be perfect for me, like I ever wanted him to be perfect anyway, and then he told me to leave him alone, so I said fine, and I left, since obviously I’m not wanted!”

For a long moment, Grandpa doesn’t say anything, the only sound Yuri’s own, harsh breathing.

He doesn’t look at Grandpa, realizing how stupid he must have just made himself look. His eyes sting, and he doesn’t even know why. Stupid fucking Viktor. Why the fuck did he have to yell at him like that? What the hell was wrong with that asshole anyway? Like he was the fucking enemy or something, when he was just trying…

“You told him what happened to him was his fault?” Grandpa’s voice is incredulous.

“No! I mean… no, that’s not… I didn’t mean for it to sound that way, anyway.”

“… But, it does sound that way Yura. You understand that, don’t you?”

Grandpa’s voice is soft, but Yura knows it well enough to hear the disappointment there. His stomach twists, the choking guilt he’d been trying to shove down suddenly clogging his throat. He can’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say.

He can’t go back to Viktor’s place. He’d made such a fucking show of storming out…

“Yura, come, let’s sit.”

Grandpa has hold of his hand still, and is tugging him gently into the small living area of the apartment, towards the worn old couch. Everything in this apartment is old and cheap, that fact only thrown into starker relief for having just come from Viktor’s apartment, where everything is so expensive, the space five times the size of Grandpa’s place. It feels cramped now. Like there’s nowhere to escape to.

“Yura, you understand that what happened to Viktor isn’t because of anything he did. You must understand that. Don’t you? Blaming a victim for what happens to them is the worst thing we can do.”

“… I know.” Yuri answers, his voice hushed. Small sounding. “I’m not… I don’t blame him. I’m just… I’m sick of seeing him give up on himself, or… or how he’s always making excuses for people. I want him to try harder. To defend himself…”

“… I think Viktor’s probably trying the best he can Yura. What he went through was horrible.”

“I know.”

“But you don’t really, Yura. You can’t, because it didn’t happen to you.”

“… I know.” Yuri says again, his voice, somehow, eve smaller. Ashamed, he thinks dismally. God, he’d really fucked up.

“Yura, look at me, will you?” 

Yuri forces his eyes up, seeing his Grandpa’s weathered face looking back, eyes piercing and serious.

“You’re right when you say Viktor is too nice. He’s a vulnerable person because of it. There are too many people in the world that are more than willing to take advantage of a person like him. To take advantage of that kindness. But don’t you also think, maybe if more people were like Viktor, the world wouldn’t be such an awful place? You shouldn’t want him to change, rather, you should want the world to change, and not treat that kind of genuine goodness so cynically. You’re Viktor’s friend Yura. He needs his friends now more than ever to help him understand that what happened to him isn’t his fault, and that he shouldn’t have to be a different person than who he is just because there are some bad people in the world who want to use that against him. Yura, I know you meant well, but you probably really hurt Viktor, when he’s already really hurting. I think he yelled at you because he was hurt and did what you keep saying you want him to do, which was defend himself. Maybe it upset you so much because you realized you forced Viktor to do something which doesn’t come naturally to him, by being so unkind yourself. You can only push a person so far before something snaps Yuri. You can’t be angry at Viktor for doing what you kept pushing him to do just because you don’t like the results.”

Yuri wants to feel angry at Grandpa for taking Viktor’s side, but he can’t even do that, because he knows Grandpa’s right.

Shit. Shit, fuck, why the hell was he like this? Why did he always have to act like such a dick and ruin everything? Why the hell had he started in on Viktor, needling him like that, when he’d just been thinking about how he needed to stop doing that? There was something fucking wrong with him. It was like he was suffering from an incurable case of being an asshole.

“… I just don’t want him to give up. I think he can skate again. I want him to believe that too.”

“Okay, then, help him believe it. Help him get better. Encourage him and be support him. Right?”

Yuri nods. He feels so stupid and ashamed. God…

Suddenly the phone rings, and Yuri’s head shoots up, heart thudding sickeningly in his chest.

His mouth falls open, ready to tell Grandpa to ignore it, but Grandpa’s already picked the receiver up off the cradle.

“Hello?” He asks, and a moment later, he switches to English. “Oh, hello Yuuri!”

_Fuck_, Yuri rolls his eyes, folding his arms defensively over his chest. It hadn’t even been an hour since he’d left and they were already calling. Jesus…

“Yes, yes, he made it here just fine. No need for worry. Yes, he explained what happened. We were just speaking about it… What… no, he isn’t angry anymore. I think he feels guilty in fact…”

“Grandpa! Jesus!”

Grandpa doesn’t even glance at him, continuing to chat it up with Katsuki on the other end.

There’s a loud noise from the other end of the receiver, what sounds like a frantic voice, and Yuri turns, staring at Grandpa, his heart kicking uncomfortably in his chest.

Grandpa’s expression gives nothing away though. Isn’t distressed. He smiles, nodding.

“Of course. Hold on.”

He pulls the phone from his ear, turning finally towards Yuri.

“Viktor wants to speak with you.”

Yuri can feel his eyes widen in his sudden panic.

“What? No! No way, I don’t want to…”

But Grandpa is already shoving the phone into his hand.

Yuri is tempted to just hang it up, but Grandpa would be super pissed at him then, and he was already angry.

Reluctantly he brings the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah…” he starts, trying to sound cool.

“Yuri, I’m sorry!” Viktor’s voice comes through, rough and wavering, and it’s obvious he’s been crying. Fucking hell. “I’m so sorry! Please don’t be mad anymore! Please come back! We don’t want you to leave, we want you here! Yes? I’m sorry if I made you feel like that wasn’t the case, I…”

“Viktor, stop.” Yuri cuts in, guilt swallowing him whole. God… God damn it. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It… it was me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that crap to you, ‘cause none of it’s true. I just… I don’t want you to give up on yourself, and it came out all wrong, and I… I’m sorry. I feel like the world’s biggest dick. Please don’t say you’re sorry ‘cause you didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. Especially what happened, I mean… Nothing you did made those bastards do what they did to you. It’s not your fault Viktor, and I’m sorry if it sounded like I was saying that.”

There’s a long pause, and Yuri feels his skin grow hot with nerves. Did he say something wrong? Did he fuck up his own apology? Fuck, he hadn’t… he hadn’t want to hurt Viktor like this. Hearing how desperate, even frightened he sounded just now, how upset, it makes Yuri want to curl up and never show his stupid face again. The shame is too much.

“… Will you come back?” He finally hears Viktor say, and he sounds so much like a little boy. Yuri’s heart breaks into a thousand pieces.

“Yeah, of course. Not… not tonight. It’s too late and I’m wasted. But tomorrow. Okay? I’m sorry Viktor. And… and tell Katsuki I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have pushed him like that. I was being a serious jerk.”

“Yuuri’s okay.” Viktor says. “We… we were worried about you leaving like that. You’re okay?”

“I’m okay. Look, I’ll call you guys tomorrow before coming over. Yeah?”

“… Okay.” Viktor answers, voice soft. “Do you want to talk to Yuuri?”

“No, I’m fine. Tell him I said I was sorry. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Okay. Goodnight Yuri.”

“Night Viktor.”

Yuri hands the phone back to Grandpa, his eyes burning. He doesn’t try to stop it as the tears well and slip down his face.

Grandpa hangs the phone up, and Yuri doesn’t resist as he pulls him into a hug. Doesn’t try to control it as he sobs against the old man’s chest.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay for this chapter guys. Life's just been really busy lately, and it's taken me longer to get this finished then normal. But anyway, I hope you enjoy it and if you have a chance, please leave me a review!

"Come on Viktor. Just one more.”

Yuri watches as Viktor’s teeth grit together, sweat beading along his forehead. His arms are shaking badly, his chest heaving with the effort.

Yuri crushes down the pity he feels, watching. He knows Viktor wouldn’t want that.

He was up to almost ten push-ups now. Real push-ups. It was progress, even if it was slow. Yuri was working on being more encouraging about that, after their fight. That included this, taking Viktor to the rink gym and helping him with his exercises. 

Katsuki was up in Yakov’s office, talking to him about something, and Yuri had been more than happy to take over with Viktor for now.

Viktor hesitates, breathing heavily as he holds himself up, before he tries for one more, lowering himself to the floor.

His arms begin trembling viciously as he struggles to push himself back up, and Yuri can already tell he isn’t going to be able to do it, no surprise when Viktor finally gives up, collapsing back down to his chest, his forehead on the rubber mat beneath him.

“That was good Viktor. That was eight. You’re improving.”

Viktor lays where he is on the floor, huffing a bitter sounding laugh.

“I just watched you do a hundred and fifty, Yura.” He says, lifting his face and looking up at him. He’s smiling, but Yuri can see the embarrassment etched beneath the surface of his expression.

Yuri shrugs. 

“You’ll get there. You couldn’t do any push-ups, like, a week ago.”

“… I guess.” Viktor’s voice is subdued.

He’s still been depressed lately, though Yuri has noticed how much of an effort he’s been making not to show it. To try and pretend at positivity. 

It sucks. He wishes Viktor didn’t feel the need to pretend. But then, Yuri supposes, he hadn’t helped in that regard, the way he’d snapped that night and basically told Viktor that what had happened to him was his own fault. 

Viktor said it was alright. That he knows Yuri hadn’t meant it. And Yuri hadn’t. But… he knows it had hurt Viktor more than the older man was admitting to. 

Yuri feels an awful, crushing guilt every time he thinks of it. Thinks of how much he’d hurt his best friend, all because he’d been too fucking immature to deal with the pressure of what Viktor was going through.

Viktor had gotten into the liquor the other night.

He and Katsuki had found Viktor after coming back from a run at the store, fallen out of his wheelchair onto the kitchen floor, completely plastered with a nearly empty bottle of Vodka lying between his stretched out legs.

He’d barely been conscious, blinking up at the two of them, a loopy, lopsided smile plastered across his face.

“My Yuuuuriiii’s…” He’d greeted with the kind of false enthusiasm alcohol gave you.

Honestly, Yuri was surprised it had taken him as long as it did. 

Viktor drank when he was depressed. If he wasn’t competing, he drank. 

At least it hadn’t taken much effort between him and Katsuki to get Viktor up and into bed. He’d been clingy, wrapping his arms around Katsuki like an octopus and rubbing his face all over his fiancé’s shoulder and neck. But otherwise he hadn’t put up a fuss, letting Katsuki undress him down to his underwear and get him under the covers.

Katsuki had apologized, telling Yuri that he had to stay with Viktor to make sure he would be okay. Yuri had understood, and told him he would just be out front playing one of his games if he needed any help.

Viktor had been mortified the next morning when he realized what had happened, tripping over himself to apologize to him and Katsuki both. He’d been crushed hard by the ensuing hangover too, throwing up a few times and unable to really get out of bed at all until the late evening, coaxed by Katsuki to try and eat a little dinner.

It sucked.

It sucked seeing Viktor like this. 

Like he was broken now.

Yuri shoves the thoughts from his head, pushing himself to his feet.

“Come on old man, up.” He stands over Viktor, grabbing him underneath the pits of his arms.

They’d started doing this a couple weeks ago. He or Katsuki essentially holding Viktor up, Viktor just trying to stay in a standing position with their support for as long as he was able, trying to strengthen his leg muscles.

So far, they’d made it up to almost 30 seconds. Yuri was proud of Viktor for trying, even if Viktor couldn’t seem to stop insulting himself lately.

Yuri didn’t think he would ever see that day. One in which Viktor seemed to have no confidence at all.

He’d always been so sure of himself…

Viktor groans, for a moment refusing to budge as he lays his head on his arms, still down on his knees.

“Come on Vitya, we have to do it.” Yuri urges, rolling his eyes. “Just go for as long as you can. It’s alright if it’s not as long as yesterday.” 

It takes more effort than he would like to get Viktor up and onto his feet, forcing the older man up from his knees and supporting all his weight. 

Viktor’s legs tremble beneath him, his hands coming up and grasping tightly to Yuri’s forearms, wrapped around his chest.

“… Yura, I can’t…” he gasps out after maybe fifteen seconds. “I can’t…”

“Yes you can Vitya. Just try…” Yuri tries to encourage, even as he can feel Viktor’s weight grow heavier in his arms. “Just ten more seconds.”

Viktor makes it about half that, and that’s good enough.

Yuri can feel when the older man’s legs give out completely, and he lowers them both to the floor.

“I’m sorry…” Viktor quickly starts to apologize.

“Stop saying that.” Yuri rolls his eyes. “Seriously, why are you apologizing? You did your best.”

Viktor says nothing to that, his features pulled into a tight, unhappy expression.

Yuri exhales, shaking his head.

“Come on, that’s enough for today I think. Let’s go find Katsuki and get outta here. Okay?”

Viktor nods weakly, and again Yuri sighs.

He’s frustrated, but he keeps it tamped down as he helps Viktor into his wheelchair.

He doesn’t know how to help, and he wishes he did. 

Wishes he knew what to say or do to help pull Viktor out of the depression he seemed to be sinking deeper into every day.

//

“Welcome back to the studio and our coverage of this years Winter Olympic Games! We’re so pleased to be joined by yesterdays gold medal winner in the men’s singles figure skating competition, Christophe Giacometti! Welcome Chris!”

Chris smiles tightly at the host, looking fleetingly towards the camera and back again, nodding.

“So, I just want to ask right off,” the host continues, grinning. “what’s it feel like to have won your first Olympic gold at the age of 28!?”

Again, Chris’s expression was tight. Forced. He could feel it. Knew it probably looked fake as plastic. He couldn’t be bothered to care.

He couldn’t be bothered to pretend.

“It feels alright.” He answers, and can’t care either at the way the hosts grin wavers, falling slightly before the man forces it back onto his face.

“Just alright?” He laughs nervously.

Chris shrugs. He doesn’t want to be here. 

He hadn’t wanted to be here since the start of this whole competition.

He hasn’t ever felt this empty winning a gold medal in his life. Hasn’t ever felt this empty after failing to medal at all.

“Well… I just have to be honest Steven.” He says, and he can hear how flat his voice is. How dead. “It doesn’t really feel like a victory. Not with the best skaters in the world out of the competition.”

Chris had a flight booked to St. Petersburg this afternoon. It was going to be a fourteen hour flight, with several layovers. He didn’t care. The sooner he left, the better. He needed to see Viktor. He needed to give him this damned medal sitting around his neck, weighing him down.

It didn’t belong to him. He knew that.

“You’re referring to Viktor Nikiforov, and his fiancé, Yuuri Katsuki, along with their rink mate Yuri Plisetsky?” The host drops his own pretense, his expression suddenly serious.

Chris nods.

“That’s right.” He answers.

It’s a struggle not to glance down at his watch. He wants this interview over.

Viktor had called him the moment the competition had been over, when Chris had come out on top. He’d been so excited for Chris, had told him over and over how proud he was of him, and it had somehow only made Chris’ feeling of despair worse.

Because Viktor had meant every word. He was proud of Chris, was happy for him. There wasn’t an ounce of animosity or resentment in him, even as he had every right to those things. 

It had taken every bit of his self-control not to burst into tears while on the phone with Viktor then. He had never felt so heartbroken.

“You feel they would have beaten you?” Steven asks bluntly, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Chris almost scoffs. He just manages not to.

“Yes.” He answers, just as bluntly back. 

“… That’s… rather humble of you to say.”

“It’s just objective fact. Look, my final score was under 300 points. All three of the men you mentioned have scored at least 20 points above that in each of their last competitions. Viktor scored almost 341 points on his last competition skate. I mean, of course it doesn’t count because it was at Russian nationals. But it was still a world record. That’s 40 plus points higher than what I just won gold for at the Olympics. His fiancé too, Yuuri, and Yuri Plisetksy. Both of them frequently score in the 320, 330 range, and higher. So what do you think Steven?”

“Well, let’s use that as a segue into talking about your friendship with Mr. Nikiforov. You’ve known him for quite a number of years, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Chris answers flatly. “I’ve known Viktor for about 14 years now. He’s my best friend.”

“You first met Mr. Nikiforov when you were 14, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. I met him at the Junior World Championships. I wasn’t competing, but I was in the stands, and I called out to him after he’d won gold. I never imagined he would actually acknowledge me. But he did. I remember, he threw me his bouquet and told me he couldn’t wait to compete with me. To a young boy like me, that meant the world. But… that’s just how Viktor is. He cares so much.”

Chris hears his own voice tremble, threatening to break with the sudden well of emotion in his chest. He wishes so much he could just stand up and walk out now. He doesn’t care how it would look. He doesn’t want to be here.

“We’ve been hearing a lot of stories about Mr. Nikiforov’s kindness and generosity during these games. I think everyone here is feeling his absence keenly.” Steven says, and irrationally Chris feels anger towards the host. He didn’t want to listen to this man’s platitudes.

He only nods.

“Do you maybe want to share some stories of your own with our audience?” The host presses, and Chris nearly stands then and there to walk out.

“… There’s too many to recall, really.” He hedges, not wanting to get into it. He doesn’t want to dredge up his memories of happier times with Viktor. Not here, on national TV. Not in front of thousands of people. He would start crying. He knows he would, and he couldn’t handle that. Not now. Not after everything.  
He can see Steven starting to get frustrated with his near monosyllabic answers, and he can’t bring himself to care about that either.

The relief he feels as the interview finally comes mercifully to an end is almost too much, and Chris stops for no one as he makes his way from the studio, back to his hotel room. He needed to finish packing, and then he would be off to the airport. To Russia, to see Viktor at last.

//

“How are you?” Chris asks as he pulls back from Yuuri’s embrace.

The younger man looks exhausted. It was the first thing Chris had noticed as he’d come through the gate and seen Viktor’s fiancé standing there, waving to him. Even in his own, deep exhaustion, he’d noticed it.

There are bags, heavy and dark underneath Yuuri’s eyes, his gaze filled with a bone deep tiredness that seems to drag down along his shoulders. His hair is longer than it was the last time Chris had seen him. Mussed and unkempt. There’s a thin layer of stubble covering his chin. It looks so out of place along Yuuri’s youthful face.

“I’m doing okay.” Yuuri shrugs, smiling weakly up at Chris. “A little tired, I guess.”

Chris frowns, shaking his head.

“You really didn’t have to come all the way out here to get me Yuuri. I could have taken a taxi.”

“It’s fine.” Yuuri answers easily. “I was happy to do it. Yurio’s back at the apartment with Viktor, and it gives me a chance to get some air.”

Chris nods, not quite believing the younger man. Yuuri is so obviously downplaying his own stress, and Chris finds himself wondering at Viktor’s fiancé, thinking about how much the boy has seemed to change since he’d first met him, all those years ago. There was a kind of assuredness to Yuuri that hadn’t been there before. A refusal to back down. A confidence in his choices.

Viktor had done that for Yuuri, he knows. Had helped the younger man believe in himself in a way he hadn’t been able to before.

Christ feels his heart ache at the thought of his best friend.

“And how is he?” He asks.

Yuuri knows who he means without needing a name, of course.

He doesn’t miss the drop in Yuuri’s expression.

“… It’s hard for him.” He admits quietly. “I think he was hoping he would be further along in his progress physically, but… he’s still in the wheelchair.”

“… He’s depressed?” Chris asks, even as he already knows the answer. 

He’d worried about this. Known it wasn’t really even a question of if, but when.

Viktor had suffered from depression for as long as Chris had known him. He didn’t succumb to it often, but when he did, it hit him hard. It was always such a jarring, heartbreaking contrast, when it happened, contrasted against Viktor’s otherwise always buoyant, child-like positivity. 

“Yeah.” Yuuri answers, his voice deflated. His eyes shine too brightly, and Chris feels so much for the younger man in that moment. This must have been so hard for him these last, few months. “But he’s so excited about you being here though. It’s all he’s been talking about all day. He can’t wait to see you Chris.”

That at last pulls a genuine smile from Chris.

Even with everything, he couldn’t wait to see Viktor either. He had missed his friend so much these last, few months of the competition season. It had taken every ounce of his will not to simply quite like Yuuri and Yurio had. He only hadn’t because he’d known it would upset Viktor if he did.

And that thought reminds him…

“Have you spoken with Viktor yet about what we talked about last time?” He asks as he begins walking with Yuuri to the baggage claim, hefting his single carry on over his shoulder.

He sees Yuuri’s lips pull into a tight line from his periphery, his hands shoving into the pockets of his coat.

“… Yeah, a little.” He says after a moment.

“And what did he say?” 

“… He wasn’t very happy about it.” Yuuri says, voice tired. “I mean, I haven’t decided yet. But I told him I was thinking of retiring, and he… I mean… he was upset. Really upset. He doesn’t want me to quit.”

“And what do you want?”

Yuuri bites his lip, his gaze casting down.

“I don’t know. I mean, well… obviously I haven’t accomplished all of wanted to in this sport yet. I still want to win gold at the Grand Prix and Worlds. I would say an Olympic gold too, but… I mean, by the time the next Games role around, I’ll probably be too old anyway…”

“You’d be Viktor’s age.” Chris points out. “And we both know he was going to win gold at this years Olympics if he’d been able to compete.”

Yuuri glances at him sidelong.

“Yeah, but he’s Viktor.”

“… And?”

Yuuri laughs.

“And he’s Viktor! He’s not a normal person! You know that as well as I do Chris! What’s possible for him isn’t really possible for us mere mortals. Remember?”

“I’m sure Viktor wouldn’t agree with you Yuuri. You’re a phenomenal skater. You do know that, don’t you?”

“… I’m a _good_ skater.” Yuuri concedes after a moment. “I might even be able to be a great skater. But… if you expect me to be able to be on Viktor’s level, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Yuuri, listen… I’ll admit Viktor is special. Obviously. He’s a prodigy. A genius, even. But I also know Viktor doesn’t lie, or tell someone they’re great for no reason. He doesn’t placate. Everything he says, he means. So when he tells you you’re special Yuuri, he means it. And if Viktor sees something in you that makes you special, then you would do well to listen. He knows what he’s looking at when it comes to skaters. I’ve never seen him rave about anyone the way he does about you.”

A light blush rises up on Yuuri’s cheeks, his gaze casting back to the floor.

“… Maybe.” He mutters shyly. 

“Definitely.” Chris corrects. “Look, anything can happen in this sport. Injuries can happen. Your body might just give up eventually and refuse to do what it once could. But then, there’s every bit as much a chance that you could last as long as Viktor did. And with your natural strength and stamina Yuuri, I would even say there’s a good chance of that. And listen, even if you don’t win Olympic gold, you still have several years left in your prime to go for those Grand Prix and World titles.”

“… Yeah, but there’s Yurio. He’s only getting better, and he’s so _young_…”

“Sure. Of course young Yuri is an incredible talent. But he also lost repeatedly to Viktor this past season, and last. And Viktor is twelve years older than that boy. You’re only eight. And you’ve beaten him several times yourself. Yuuri, you give yourself far too little credit. You easily have the talent to be a world champion. You’ve broken some of Viktor’s own records, for God’s sake! Do you know I’ve never come within 20 points of one of Viktor’s records, in my entire career?! You’re behind him by only a few points overall.”

“… I guess you’re right.” Yuuri agrees grudgingly, sounding unsure still.

“I am. Listen to your uncle Chris.”

“… Gross.” Yuuri says, but he smiles up at Chris as he does, and Chris laughs.

“Look, all I’m saying is you should consider continuing on in your career. Don’t give up on yourself so easily. And… don’t give up on Viktor either. I… I know the chances of him competing again aren’t good. But , well, like you said, he’s Viktor. He’s special. If anyone could come back from this, it’s him. And even if he can’t, that doesn’t mean he can’t come back to coach you still.”

“… I know. I don’t… I mean… one thing I know for sure is I don’t want to keep competing if Viktor can’t coach me anymore. He’s the only one who’s ever been able to make me feel like I really belong out there with the best in the world. I know I can’t do it without him. He tried telling me I could keep competing even if it was with a different coach, but even if that were true, I don’t want that.”

Chris nods, understanding.

It only made sense, even, that Yuuri wouldn’t want to continue without Viktor. Viktor, after all, had been not only the one to coach Yuuri into the world-class skater he now was, but also choreograph all of his winning routines these past two seasons. To switch coaches now could potentially unravel all of that success.

“C-congratulations, by the way. On Olympic Champion.” Yuuri stammers out suddenly.

Chris feels himself stiffen, unable to stop the scowl which passes over his features, or the scoff which drags past his lips.

“We both know I’m a place holder darling.” Chris says bluntly. “The gold should have been one of yours.”

He can see Yuuri’s cheeks flare red out of the corner of his eye, and he feels bad suddenly for sounding so bitter. He isn’t angry at any of them, or even himself. It’s just the situation. The podium would have gone one, two, three for his friends if what had happened to Viktor… hadn’t.

So many things would be different, if what had happened didn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Chris apologizes. “It just… feels empty. Of course I was happy to win. I just know if Viktor or you or Yuri had been there, I wouldn’t have even made the top three. So, yes, a place holder, I’m afraid.” 

He laughs weakly, and Yuuri looks up at him.

“I’m sorry.” He says. “I know competing the rest of the season isn’t what you wanted. I know you did it for Viktor. He… he was rooting for you in every competition, you know?”

Chris smiles weakly, feeling his heart sink.

“I know.” 

“By the way, you should put a coat on if you have it. It’s pretty bitter out there.” Yuuri says, once they’ve reached the baggage claim.

“Ah…” Chris nods. 

The one thing he wasn’t looking forward to.

St. Petersburg in February.

//

“Mon cher!” Chris cries, striding immediately towards Viktor the moment he steps through the apartment’s entrance and spots his best friend sat at the kitchen table.

“Chris!” Viktor practically shouts, and the entire space seems to erupt into a cacophony of noise as Makkachin starts barking and leaping about. 

Yurio is there, sitting opposite Viktor, and Chris laughs as he sees the boy roll his eyes, grumbling something to himself.

Chris makes short work of the distance between him and Viktor with his long strides, and in a moment, he’s dropping into a kneel before him, scooping Viktor up into a hug, crushing him tight against his chest.

Viktor hugs him back, and Chris can feel through his friend’s clothes how frail he is still. He feels like skin and bones, and Viktor’s arms around him are weak. He forces himself to ignore it, squeezing Viktor tighter still for a long moment, before finally pulling back. He leans in, pressing quick, soft kisses to each of Viktor’s cheeks.

Viktor beams at him, his smile wide, even as Chris can’t help but note the too sharp cut of his cheekbones, his normally brilliant blue eyes dull and weighted down by dark, heavy bags beneath. He looks easily as exhausted as Yuuri. Probably more, Chris thinks dismally. His hair is getting long too, the ends growing past his shoulders. It’s almost shocking to see. Chris supposes he’d gotten used to Viktor’s short, neatly trimmed hair these last, several years.

“How are you?” Chris asks, forcing himself to smile back.

Viktor’s eyes shine over-bright a moment, his expression faltering just barely, before the smile pulls back into place.

“I’m okay. Better now that you’re here.” He answers softly. Viktor’s hands come up, bracing against Chris’ shoulders. “Olympic Champion!” He exclaims excitedly. “Chris!”

Chris continues to force his smile, even as he feels another wave of despair.

“Eh. Your fiancé told me the same thing. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told him darling. I’m just a place holder.”

He regrets the words the instant he sees the naked hurt flash through Viktor’s eyes.

“Chris… don’t say that.”

“Ah, forgive me mon cher.” Chris apologizes. “I just missed you. All of you.”

He looks to young Yuri, sitting still at the other end of the kitchen table. 

“Hey.” Yuri nods at him. “Viktor’s right. You shouldn’t dismiss yourself like that Chris.”

Chris smiles at him, holding a hand over his heart.

“I shall endeavor to be more generous to myself then. You look well Yuri.”

“Pff. I look like shit. We all do. You can say it.”

“I’m going to get dinner started.” Yuuri announces before Chris can answer. “Chris, we’ve set up one of the rooms for you. I assume you’re staying here, right?”

“Oui, mon ami.” Chris answers. “Thank you!”

“Yurio can show you where it is, right Yurio?”

“Yeah, sure.” The younger boy answers boredly, waving a dismissive hand.

Chris smiles at him again before he turns back to Viktor, reaching up and cupping the older man’s face between his hands. 

Viktor reaches up with him, grasping loosely to Chris’ wrists.

“Thank you…” Viktor says, voice hardly more than a whisper. “For coming.”

“Of course.” Chris says softly back. “For you Viktor… anything.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Viktor remembers something awful from his past...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, so, I've got to give a fair warning for this chapter. It includes a pretty explicit scene of rape/non-con. If you want to skip it, it's in the italicized section. I've added warnings to the tags as well for it. Otherwise, I'm sorry for the more sporadic updates lately. Things have just been hectic, but I hope you understand, and don't worry, I'm not abandoning this story by any means. I work on it all the time, and will continue to do so! As always, thank you for all your support!

“I thought they would rape me.” 

Dr. Sokolova looks back at him with that serious, still somehow soft look she sometimes shows, her eyes filled with pain and understanding both.

Viktor looks away, his face hot with shame. He focuses his eyes on his hands, running nervously up and down his knees.

“… You thought they would?” The doctor finally prompts, when Viktor makes no indication to elaborate.

“They didn’t.” He explains. “I would remember if they had, but…”

His throat closes up, and he shuts his eyes against the memories flooding his brain. The suffocating terror he feels whenever he remembers, whenever he thinks of it.

“Why did you think they would rape you Viktor?” Dr. Sokolova presses gently. 

“… B-because they… they acted like they would. They…” he stumbles over his words. He can hear himself stammering, his voice shaking, and he hopes he doesn’t start crying again. He’s so tired of crying all the time. “Th-they had me on the ground, I… I remember. It was cold. It was so cold and they… one of them was sitting… w-was… he was straddling my h-hips and p-pinning my arms to the ground, above my head… I tried pushing him off but he… they were too strong. I couldn’t get him off, and they kept laughing and laughing and I…”

He can’t stop the burning in his eyes from welling into tears, and he reaches up, swiping at them in frustration and embarrassment. 

Dr. Sokolova doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t press. She waits, and Viktor appreciates that. He appreciates her patience.

“They had a magazine, with a picture of me and Yuuri on the front… I know I already told you, but…”

“It’s alright Viktor.”

“I didn’t remember until I saw them again. I don’t know… don’t know why, just… seeing them again made me remember. They kept calling Yuuri all these horrible names and… I wanted them to stop. I remember telling them to stop, but they didn’t care, and then they… the man on top of me s-started… he…”

Viktor’s chest is too tight, his breath trapped in his lungs.

He can’t speak suddenly.

“It’s okay Viktor. Just breathe. Remember our exercises. Take a deep breath…”

Viktor tries, letting Dr. Sokolova guide him through for the next, few minutes, until he’s calmed enough to again speak.

“… The man on top of me was t-touching me through my pants, and they were laughing and then they… they, I think they stuffed the cover of the magazine they had in my mouth, and they were saying things about m-me and Yuuri. It made me think they were going to… that they would… b-but they didn’t. They just kept hitting me after that. I don’t… I don’t know why they didn’t do anything else. They wanted to scare me, maybe. I don’t know. Just… it… it was the same feeling I had, during my first…”

Again Viktor pauses, a new wave of memories bursting to the forefront of his mind, unwanted. Unneeded. He raises a hand, biting down on his knuckles to shove the sob wanting to work up his throat back down. 

He doesn’t want to remember this. Any of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it’s important, to work through. To talk about with someone.

He’d never spoken to anyone about this though. This particular memory. Not even Yakov. Not Yuuri. Nobody.

Most days he was able to forget it. Most days.

Not today.

“The same feeling you had during what Viktor?” Dr. Sokolova asks gently.

He bites his lip, trying to keep his breathing even and steady. He doesn’t think he quite succeeds, his voice coming out reedy and high when at last he forces it past his teeth.

“The first time I had sex.” He can’t look at his therapist. Keeps his eyes fixed firmly down. 

There’s a long stretch of silence which seems deafening in its weight, and Viktor burns where he sits, dizzy and sick feeling.

“Were you raped?” The doctor finally speaks, her voice hushed. Careful.

Viktor shakes his head.

“N-no, I don’t… I don’t think…”

“… You don’t think?” 

That doesn’t make any sense, Viktor knows. He’s never spoken of this to anyone. He doesn’t know how to explain.

“… I gave my consent, I mean. Just…” he starts. Stops. He doesn’t know how to explain. How do you explain that you felt like something terrible had happened, when you’d given permission? How do you explain that? “It felt… like… I… I don’t know how to explain. I told him yes. I said yes. He didn’t…”

“Viktor, take a deep breath. Listen, I’m going to try and help you through explaining. First, can you tell me when this happened? When you had your first sexual experience?”

Viktor blinks against his tears, still unable to raise his eyes.

“I was 16.” He says quietly. “There… there was this pairs skater, from one of our rival rinks. His name was Vladimir. He was older. T-twenty-four, I think. Maybe twenty-five. We used to see each other sometimes during competitions. I mean, just in passing. He was a senior, and I hadn’t moved up yet. I was getting ready to. We’d never talked, b-but I remember having… I mean… I thought he was cute. But I was too shy to ever talk to him. And then one day he just came up and started talking to me, and then he asked me if I wanted to have sex with him. I’d only ever kissed before. Not even any real kissing. Just closed mouthed. It seemed like everyone I knew had had sex already, and I… I mean, I felt embarrassed, because I hadn’t.”

“That’s normal.” Dr. Sokolova replies softly.

“I know. I thought… I’d thought he was nice looking. Vladimir, I mean. He was good looking and… so I said yes. He brought me to his hotel room. I was nervous, but I… I went with him anyway. I didn’t think… I just… and I was lonely. I felt really lonely, back then…”

_“Why don’t you take off your clothes, sweetheart?”_

_Viktor feels his heart slam impossibly harder against the cage of his ribs, swallowing dryly as he looks up at the man from where he’s sat on the bed._

_He’s nervous. He can’t remember ever feeling this kind of nervousness before. It wasn’t the same as nerves before a competition. He was used to that. That fear of failing. Of disappointing. But tempered, always tempered by the knowledge that he knew what he was doing. He knew skating better than he knew anything. It didn’t scare him in itself. Just the thought of failure. This was different. More like a sick uncertainty. Worry over having no idea at all what he was doing, or what could happen. What might happen._

_It doesn’t help that Vladimir seems so confident. So sure of himself. _

_Viktor had heard all the rumors about him. That he was a playboy. That he’d slept with countless men and women alike. _

_He feels suddenly as young as he is. Like a child, looking up at a man. Vladimir is still fully clothed, but Viktor can see the broad, powerful cut of his frame through his tight-fitting polo. Of course. He was a pairs skater. He was pure power, strong and athletic in a way Viktor could only dream of being. _

_He’s abruptly, painfully aware of his own, skinny body. He still hasn’t filled out, the way some of the juniors his age have begun to. Still has the body of a thirteen, fourteen-year-old little boy. Still weighs only a 120 pounds, despite growing an inch in the last year. Even with that added height, he’d felt keenly how small he was compared to Vladimir on the way up, standing beside the older skater in the elevator. Vladimir stood a good head taller than him, right around 5’10”, 5’11”, Viktor had to guess. _

_He was only just a little over 5’7 ½”. _

_Vladimir is looking at him expectantly, and Viktor sits frozen, feeling paralyzed and unsure. There’s a sudden, powerful desire in him not to be here, but he doesn’t say anything. He can’t bail now. If he does, word will spread faster than a forest fire, he knows. People were already whispering behind his back, he knew, about him being a virgin. People laughed about it. _

_Vladimir smiles at him, stepping closer. Reaching out a hand, he cups the side of Viktor’s face, running his thumb up the curve of his cheekbone._

_“You’re beautiful.” He says, and his hand shifts up, pushing his fingers into Viktor’s hair. “Take your clothes off. I want to see your body.”_

_Viktor still doesn’t move. Doesn’t know if he can. _

_I don’t want to do this, he thinks, but it’s too late. Isn’t it? He was already in the room. He’d already said yes._

_Vladimir smirks, dropping his hand from his hair, his fingers finding the top button of Viktor’s dress shirt. _

_“Don’t be shy, sweetheart, come on. I’ll take good care of you.” _

_Viktor sits frozen still as Vladimir begins undoing the buttons of his shirt, his body finally seeming to respond only when his shirt falls halfway open. He reaches up quickly, grasping hold of the older skater’s hands, stopping him._

_“I… I can do it.” He stammers out, his breath hitching._

_Vladimir smiles down at him, letting his hand drop away as he takes a step back. His brows rise up in expectation, and Viktor looks away, struggling against his almost dizzying nerves now as he brings his hands up to his shirt, praying the trembling he feels in them isn’t too obvious as he clumsily undoes the rest of the buttons. _

_He hesitates a long moment when he undoes the last of them, before forcing himself to shrug the garment off his shoulders, letting it slip down and pool around his waist, exposing his torso._

_He’s overcome with self-consciousness, fighting to keep his arms down at his sides and not cover himself up as Vladimir’s eyes rake over his naked chest and stomach with obvious lust._

_“Your skin is so pale. Like porcelain.” The older man steps forward again, and his hands are on Viktor’s shoulders, running up and down, fingers digging in with light pressure. _

_Viktor’s throat is dry, a spike of something unpleasant in his gut, and then Vladimir is pushing him back, and Viktor can feel the man’s strength, the unpleasant sensation shifting into something worse. Something almost like fear. _

_“Lie back and relax baby. I’m going to take good care of you.”_

_Viktor’s back hits the mattress beneath him, and Vladimir sinks down to his knees, his hands on Viktor’s knees. He pushes his legs apart and Viktor’s stomach cramps in sudden panic._

_“V-Vladimir, wait, I don’t…”_

_“Shh, Viktor. It’s alright. Let me make you feel good. You want to feel good, don’t you? You’re a virgin, right? You don’t know what you’re missing baby.”_

_He doesn’t give Viktor a chance to respond before his hand snakes up, running along the inside of his thigh and higher, palming roughly over his crotch._

_Viktor can’t stop the soft gasp which slips past his teeth, the sensation unexpected. Vladimir smiles at him, that same, cocky sureness. _

_“You like that baby?” He asks, beginning to massage through the material of Viktor’s pants._

_Viktor’s head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut and teeth clenching together._

_It feels good._

_Viktor isn’t totally naïve. He’s touched himself plenty of times. He knows how good it feels. He’s just never had someone else touch him the same way, and he can’t push past the nervous uncertainty pressing down on his chest. _

_Vladimir squeezes firmly, rubbing with more firmness, and a soft groan slips from Viktor’s throat at the sudden shot of pleasure which pools low in his stomach. His shoulders sink back down into the mattress, and maybe he can do this. Maybe it’ll be okay, if he just relaxes, like Vladimir said. _

_“Good sweetheart. Good. Just lay back and let me do all the work.”_

_Viktor keeps his eyes squeezed shut, willing himself to stay still as he feels Vladimir begin to fiddle with the button of his pants, undoing it. The sound of him pulling down the zipper seems too loud in the otherwise silent room, and Viktor’s chest heaves. He doesn’t know if it’s from nervousness or anticipation at this point._

_Whatever it is, it shifts to renewed uncertainty when he feels powerful fingers dig into the waistband of his pants and underwear, tugging almost violently down._

_Viktor’s eyes fly open, and his voice is trapped in his throat as he lifts his head. He’s scared again. Ashamed. He doesn’t want Vladimir to see him. Looking down at himself, his body looks scrawny and weak, his stomach sunk concave, his ribs showing prominently through the skin. _

_Another, hard tug, and the air of the room is a shock between his legs. He sees his own penis, limp and pitiful looking as it hangs there, and he lifts a hand, covering his eyes._

_“Wow, the drapes match the curtains I see. And here I thought it was a dye job.” He hears Vladimir say, and Viktor’s face burns in shame. People always thought that. They never believed his hair was really the color it was. _

_Whatever embarrassment he feels at that thought is quickly driven from his mind as he feels Vladimir pull his pants and underwear completely free, and at once he has Viktor in his hand, jerking and tugging at him with obvious expertise, and Viktor, for a long, few seconds, is lost to the sudden surge of intense pleasure._

_He can’t help the soft moan which drags from his throat, sounding too loud and shameful to his own ears, made worse by the sound of Vladimir’s satisfied laughter._

_“Bet you never felt anything like this before, huh baby?”_

_Viktor wants to ask him to stop calling him baby. Stop calling him sweetheart. He doesn’t like it. It’s humiliating. Makes him feel young and stupid and like he shouldn’t be here. Makes him feel wrong, somehow…_

_He can’t say anything though, quiet, helpless moans continuing to be pulled from his throat. He squirms on the bed, pleasure building too quickly, too much. Oh, oh God… he lifts a hand, biting down on his knuckles, and thinks he isn’t going to last… he isn’t…_

_Vladimir’s hand disappears, the loss of warmth sudden and sharp, and Viktor gasps at the horrible ache which follows, almost painful._

_Again the older man laughs._

_“You got hard as a rock real fast, sweetheart. Look at that.”_

_Viktor’s eyes open, his vision blurry and unfocused, blinking rapidly against tears, and he lifts his head, seeing himself fully erect and leaking. He needs… he needs… oh, Jesus…_

_He wants to beg Vladimir to finish him off, please. Please. It hurts._

_But he can’t get the words out before Vladimir is at once grasping him behind the knees, hiking the rest of his body up onto the bed in one, swift motion, crawling on after him as he drags Viktor higher up, until his head hits the pillows against the headboard._

_Viktor feels breathless and confused, and again his voice doesn’t seem to want to work, only able to stare wide eyed up at the older man as he settles between Viktor’s raised knees. He takes hold the hem of his polo, lifting it off over his head, revealing a broad, powerful torso, and Viktor realizes why it was so easy for this man to pick him up like some sort of rag doll. Vladimir’s large hands go to his belt then, undoing the buckle of it with practiced ease._

_In what seems hardly a moment, Vladimir has his pants and boxers pushed down past his hips, and Viktor stares, wide eyed, shocked at the evidence of Vladimir’s own arousal. He looks huge to Viktor. A full-grown man. And abruptly the nervousness and insecurity from before comes crashing back down on him, strangling in its intensity. He feels exposed, pathetic. He thinks he must look pathetic, to this muscular, powerful man above him, with his own skinny, weak little body._

_And then Vladimir is leaning over above him, reaching past, to one of the nightstands, pulling open one of the drawers. Viktor turns his head, watching, and sees a pack of condoms pulled free._

_Wait… _

_He doesn’t… he doesn’t want… he didn’t think…_

_But then, what did he think Vladimir meant, when he asked him if he wanted to have sex? How else were two men supposed to do it? He knew that, somewhere in the back of his mind. He just hadn’t thought…_

_But that’s what’s happening, he realizes, as he watches Vladimir tear one of the packets open with his teeth, pulling the condom free. Realizes what Vladimir intends to do, as he rolls it down over himself. _

_Panic clamps down on Viktor’s lungs, and he sputters for a moment, trying desperately to get the words out. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. What he wants to say. He just thinks, suddenly, overwhelmingly, he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want it._

_“V-Vladimir, w-wait… wait, I don’t… I’ve never…”_

_Vladimir’s hand is on his chest, pressing the palm flat, running it over the expanse of skin, fingers rolling over his nipples._

_“Hush little baby. You’ve got to break yourself in sometime, don’t you? You’ve never had anal? That’s what you’re going to say? Well, of course not. Look at you. You’re just a sweet young thing, aren’t you? Like an angel. God, you’re beautiful. I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby. I’m gonna make you come harder than you’ve ever come in your life. You ready? I’m gonna fuck you real good sweetheart.”_

_Viktor’s eyes are wide in his head, and he thinks no. No. How did he end up in this position? How did he let this happen? He needs to leave. He needs to get out from under Vladimir and get his clothes back on and…_

_A sharp gasp tears from his throat as Vladimir flips him on the bed, and a moment later, Viktor finds himself flat on his stomach, his arms stretched over his head, pinned to the mattress by his wrists. He feels Vladimir over him, holding him down. Can feel the man’s superior strength._

_His throat closes up in terror as he realizes, really realizes at last that this is happening. That he let this happen and he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t. He isn’t ready. He can’t…_

_He tries desperately pulling his arms free, but he can’t. He can’t. Vladimir is too strong._

_“Just relax baby. You’re gonna take all of me.”_

_It’s all the warning Viktor gets. _

_He isn’t ready. _

_He feels the head of Vladimir’s penis press against him, and then there’s nothing but overwhelming pressure and pain as the older man shoves into him without any preparation._

_It’s agony._

_Viktor gasps and spasms against the sheets beneath him, a high-pitched whine ripping from his throat. He tries speaking. Begging Vladimir to stop. To pull out. It hurts. Oh… oh God, it hurts so much._

_“P-pp-ple…”_

_“That’s right baby boy, just like that. Oh, you’re so tight…”_

_And Vladimir is moving, snapping his hips forward violently against him, driving somehow, impossibly, deeper._

_Viktor’s whine slides into a sob, his eyes burning, blind with welling, thick tears. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. How had he… how had he let this…_

_Suddenly Vladimir lets go one of his wrists, only Viktor’s hardly realized it before he feels strong fingers bury into the strands of his long hair, tearing harshly at it, pain burning through his scalp._

_“God, your hair is like silk. It’s so soft. You look like an angel baby. Like an angel.”_

_Vladimir keeps driving into him, over and over, and Viktor feels sick. The pain is breathtaking. He can’t get any words out, can’t breathe even. Can’t ask him to stop. Can’t push him off, even as he tries, again and again. He doesn’t think Vladimir even notices._

_His own, still hard penis slides against the mattress with every, violent thrust, trapped between it and Viktor’s stomach, and horribly, the friction sends jolts of pleasure through him with every snap of Vladimir’s hips, mixing in a nauseating combination with the blinding pain crushing his insides._

_Viktor doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why this is happening. He’d just wanted… he thought maybe it would be nice. Vladimir had seemed nice. A good looking man, and he’d wanted to be with Viktor. _

_Viktor had felt so lonely. Here, in another country for a competition. All Viktor had to do between programs was sit alone in his hotel room._

_He didn’t have any friends. Nobody that wanted to hang out with him. The other juniors from his club thought he was strange…_

_He comes without even realizing he’d been about to. The pain had been too much, and he hadn’t even realized. A swell of sudden pleasure washes through him as he ejaculates, feeling the sticky warmth slide against his stomach and the mattress beneath. It fades out quickly, barely felt, and then the pain takes over again, Vladimir still thrusting into him from behind. _

_Viktor stops fighting. His face collapses into the pillow beneath him, lying still and just praying for it to end soon._

_He doesn’t know how much time passes before, at last, it does._

_He hears Vladimir moan loudly above him, a long, dragged out sound. Feels him tense abruptly. And then he comes with a sharp cry, and a moment later, his heavy body collapses onto Viktor’s back._

_Viktor lies still. Vladimir still has a hold of him, still pinning his wrist, hand still tangled in his hair. Viktor couldn’t push the weight of him off anyway. He feels Vladimir’s chest heaving against the blades of his shoulders, and he feels like he’s going to be sick when the warmth of the older man’s breath ghosts over the back of his neck, and then the nuzzle of his lips as he presses his face into the space below his ear._

_“You were so good baby.” Vladimir says, and Viktor bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, until he tastes blood, to keep the sob lodged in his throat from escaping._

_“… I need to get back to my room.” He forces the words out after a few, long seconds. His voice trembles, even as he struggles to keep it steady. He knows his face is splotchy with tears. There’s a sickening fear building in his gut, that Vladimir won’t let him go. That he’ll force him to stay. Do this to him again. “M-my coach will be mad if I don’t get back soon.”_

_“Right. Yeah.” Vladimir says, and the relief Viktor feels as he pulls out of him and sits back, letting him go finally is almost enough to reduce him to sobs then and there. He just manages to hold it together. “I forgot you’re still a junior, huh? Coaches are such assholes when you’re a junior. Think they can control you.”_

_Viktor thinks of Yakov, and he just barely is able to bring his hand to his mouth quickly enough, biting down hard on the knuckles to keep the sob from escaping._

_He wants Yakov. Oh God, he wants Yakov. He’s so scared. He doesn’t know what just happened. Only knows it hurt, and he feels weird. Feels empty and lost._

_He keeps his face turned away as he pushes himself up off the mattress. There’s panic swirling in his chest, threatening to consume him. An awful, urgent need to get away. He has to get away before Vladimir changes his mind, he thinks. The terror that he will is almost blinding._

_He stumbles off the bed, hands shaking violently as he searches frantically for his discarded clothes, snatching them up when he spots them. The world around him feels strange, an odd, disconcerting fog seeming to settle over everything._

_“You might want to clean up first.” He hears Vladimir’s voice somewhere beside him. He sounds far away. Like he’s under water. “Before you get dressed. You’ve got cum all over your front.”_

_Viktor feels himself shake his head, pulling on his pants. He doesn’t bother with his underwear. His legs feel weak beneath him, like any minute they’ll fail, and he has to get out. He has to get out now._

_Distantly he’s aware of the burning fire still wracking his entire lower half. He ignores it, pulling his shirt on. He struggles for only a few seconds with the buttons before giving up, his hands shaking too much to get any of them done up._

_He forgets his shoes and socks as he stumbles for the room’s door._

_Vladimir is calling out behind him, but Viktor doesn’t hear what he says. Doesn’t care. He needs to get out now, now, now, before Vladimir changes his mind._

_The fear is suffocating, an awful certainty that any moment he’ll feel powerful arms wrap around him and pull him back into the room, back to the bed. The world tilts dangerously in front of him, Viktor falling against the door, hands struggling to turn the handle and pull it open. Vladimir’s going to pull him back, he thinks. He’s going to keep him, he’s…_

_The door is open and Viktor stumbles out into the hallway, and Vladimir still hasn’t stopped him and Viktor doesn’t think. He runs. He runs down the hallway, to the elevators. He thinks he hears the door to Vladimir’s room click shut, but he doesn’t know. He presses the call button over and over, his heart racing in his chest, blood rushing in his ears._

_Vladimir’s going to come after him, he thinks frantically. He’s going to come. Please, please, hurry up, he thinks._

_The light above him dings, and the doors slide open. Viktor falls into the lift, turning and pressing the button for his floor with too much force._

_He stares out with vibrating eyes, into the hallway, expecting Vladimir’s face to suddenly be there. _

_But he never comes. The doors slide shut, and the elevator jolts as it begins to lift higher._

_Viktor falls back against the wall, pressing a hand over his mouth._

_He has to hold it together. He can’t make a scene out here. He has to get back to his room._

_The elevator stops on his floor, the doors sliding open again, and Viktor falls out into the hallway, his hand still pressed against his mouth as he staggers toward his room at the end._

_For a moment, he fears he’s left his keycard in Vladimir’s room, searching his pockets desperately for the plastic. He nearly starts sobbing when his fingers slide over it, and he pulls it free. His hands are shaking so badly it takes three times trying it before the light blinks green, and he pushes the door to his room open. _

_He stumbles inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He locks it, and then he turns, and his legs finally fail him. _

_He collapses to his knees, and then he begins to sob._

_//_

_He falls on every one of his jumps the next day during the long program. Falls during a step sequence. He can hear the gasps of the crowd with every mistake. Every, humiliating failure. _

_Yakov meets him at the boards, his face grave with concern, and Viktor can’t meet his eyes._

_“What’s wrong?” Yakov asks. “Vitya…”_

_Viktor shakes his head, staggering to the kiss and cry. Yakov has hold of his hand, not letting him go as they sit._

_Viktor’s crying already. His score is going to be terrible. Yakov is going to be angry with him._

_The scores come in._

_102.28._

_It’s his lowest score ever._

_He drops from first to fifth place. Off the podium. It’s the first time he’s failed to medal in almost two years. _

_Viktor covers his face with his hands. He feels Yakov’s arm come around his shoulders, pulling him against his solid frame._

_“Vitya, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a regional. It’s okay.”_

_But it isn’t okay. It isn’t. _

_Yakov had seen him that morning. Had seen him limping pronouncedly. Had asked Viktor what was wrong, and Viktor had lied to him. For the first time in his life. He’d lied, and told Yakov he’d taken a nasty fall against his hip earlier that morning during an unauthorized practice. Yakov had scolded him._

“How many times must I tell you, you idiot boy! I don’t want you out there on the ice without my supervision! Were you trying the quad flip again?!” 

_And again Viktor had lied, nodding, letting Yakov scream at him._

_There’d been blood. Last night, when Viktor had finally dragged himself to the bathroom to take a shower, and he’d pulled his clothes off, and there’d been so much blood, smeared all along the inside of his thighs, smeared in the material of his pants. He’d panicked, at first, not knowing where it was coming from, until he’d realized… Because Vladimir hadn’t used any lubrication. Had just pushed into him, when he’d never… and he’d torn him up. That’s why it had hurt so bad. Why it still burned like fire, even now. Why it had burned out there on the ice, and he couldn’t focus… couldn’t concentrate on anything but how much it hurt…_

_“I… I have to use the bathroom.” He lies again now, standing abruptly._

_“Vitya, wait…” Yakov calls, but Viktor is already moving away, clumsily clomping towards the restrooms in his skates. He doesn’t bother taking them off._

_He locks himself in one of the stalls, just barely managing to press his hands over his mouth and muffle the wretched sob which shoves past his teeth._

He must have been in that stall for nearly an hour before Yakov had come and found him.

He remembers the knock on the door, Yakov’s worried voice sounding tiny in the otherwise empty, tiled space.

Viktor had refused to open the door at first, ashamed and humiliated. But Yakov hadn’t given up, telling him it was alright. He would just wait. And he had.

Viktor, after a long time, had eventually worked up the courage to open the stall door, and he’d found Yakov sitting down on the floor, his back leaned against the wall beside the stall.

Just the sight of him, Viktor remembers. That’s all it had taken.

Yakov had pushed himself to his feet, and Viktor had lost control again, falling into his coach’s arms and breaking down into sobs.

He’d never told Yakov. Never told anyone.

Yakov had assumed Viktor was so upset because of how badly he’d performed. Viktor had let him assume it.

“Viktor…”

He’s pulled from the memory by the sound of his therapist’s voice, and when he looks up at her, he sees her looking back, her face etched with naked pain.

He blinks, taken aback.

“Viktor, you don’t understand still, do you?”

“Understand?” He asks after a pause. His heart rams against his ribs. He doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him.

“Viktor… that man, Vladimir you said his name was… what he did to you. You don’t understand?”

Viktor looks away. He shrugs. 

“We had sex. I didn’t… it was a bad experience, I guess. I guess I was so upset because it wasn’t how I hoped it would be…”

“Viktor… oh, you…” Dr. Sokolova stops, her voice noticeably wavering a moment. Viktor looks back at her. Her eyes are glassy through her glasses. “… He raped you Viktor. Vladimir. That was rape.”

A spike of something awful shoots through Viktor then. Something ugly and sick twisting his guts. He shakes his head.

“No, I… it wasn’t. I agreed. I told him yes. It wasn’t rape.”

“Viktor, I know this is difficult to accept. You’ve been telling yourself all these years it was consensual. But what you’ve just described to me is _not_ consensual sex. You have to understand that. The reason it felt the same to you, when those men who attacked you had you pinned to the ground, the reason you were so scared they would rape you… Viktor, it’s because you know what it feels like, to be raped. Because you were, when you were a 16 year old child…”

Viktor is shaking his head again.

His lungs feel tight, crushed in his chest, and suddenly it’s like he can’t breathe. No… no, he’d… he’d told Vladimir yes. He’d agreed. It wasn’t… it wasn’t what he’d expected. It had been awful. Yes. Okay. But he’d consented. He’d… hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?

“Viktor, it’s important you understand this, so you can start to process it. This man Vladimir. He was 24, you said? That’s a full grown man. He manipulated you, and then forced you into a situation you didn’t want. He wouldn’t let you speak. Didn’t ask you if you were ever okay. Didn’t ask you if you wanted what was happening. What he was doing to you. From what you just told me, you wanted him to stop, but you couldn’t say that, because he wouldn’t let you.”

Viktor doesn’t know what to say. He feels frozen where he sits, his voice trapped in his throat. That couldn’t be. He hadn’t… no, he hadn’t wanted, but… but he’d told himself, because, he’d said yes, and Vladimir hadn’t acted like he’d done anything _wrong_. He hadn’t made any threats or… or acted worried in any way. Had let Viktor go, back to his room. Hadn’t tried to stop him, and Viktor had just thought… had thought that was just the way it was, sometimes. Sometimes you wouldn’t like it, would think even you didn’t want it, but it… Vladimir hadn’t forced him. He _hadn’t_.

But… it _felt_ like he had, Viktor thinks with horror. It had felt like he’d been forced, even though he’d said yes. Oh… oh God, he couldn’t…

“Viktor, we’ve talked a lot about loneliness in your life. How lonely you felt growing up. How that loneliness continued on into your adulthood, and how it sometimes led you to engage in activities you later realized you didn’t really want to engage in. How you used to frequent night clubs and often drink until you blacked out. How you would latch on to any man that showed even a little interest in you, and would inevitably be let down hard when they didn’t turn out to be the love of your life. You’ve described to me how you often felt isolated as a child, because you never really fit in, even with the other children your age who were also skaters. How you didn’t really have any friends until you met Christophe. How you often were by yourself during competitions. Don’t you think that an adult man, known for romantic experience, seeing you, as a 16 year old, off by yourself, would know exactly how to take advantage? That he might understand exactly what to say to you to get you to do something you maybe weren’t ready for, or didn’t even really want?”

Dr. Sokolova’s voice is gentle. Careful. Like she’s speaking to a frightened animal that might run off any moment.

Viktor feels sick.

Doesn’t feel like he can speak, for a moment, his mouth gone dry and eyes burning.

No… no, no, no…

He thinks about how he would wrench his thoughts away whenever he thought of that night. How he forcefully didn’t allow himself to think of it for more than a few moments each time it passed through his brain. How, when he couldn’t stop the thoughts, he always felt a vague nausea. A bleeding sense of wrong. 

He hadn’t… hadn’t wanted to believe…

But… she was right. Oh… oh God. Dr. Sokolova was right.

He remembers Vladimir had found him in the lobby of their hotel, the night of the skaters’ rest day. Viktor had been wandering around down there, aimless and bored and lonely. All of Yakov’s other skaters were either out together, or at the rink, doing last minute run throughs of their programs.

Nobody had invited Viktor along that night. And Viktor remembers he’d been too shy to ask.

And then Vladimir had come up to him. Viktor remembers he’d been staring at some piece of not very good modern art hung on a wall, when he’d heard the man’s voice beside him. When he’d turned, Vladimir had been standing there, tall and handsome and focused on him.

Viktor had blinked up at him, surprised and disbelieving. And then Vladimir had smiled at him, and Viktor’s heart had kicked in his chest because Vladimir had never talked to him before, even though Viktor had seen him around a lot during competitions and had thought he was so cute. Had always wanted to talk to him, but had never had the courage. 

This handsome, strong, older man was talking to _him_. Was paying _attention_ to him.

Viktor hadn’t been able to believe it, at first. Hadn’t thought Vladimir even knew who he was. And suddenly he was talking to him. _Flirting_ with him. And Viktor had been overwhelmed. Had been so excited.

Vladimir had been so charming. Had just talked with Viktor for nearly an hour, leading him over to the lobby fireplace, sitting with him in the big chairs and holding his hand, asking him all about himself, like he was really interested.

Viktor had thought he was. Had thought Vladimir cared…

And then he’d asked if Viktor wanted to have sex, and Viktor hadn’t wanted Vladimir to leave. Hadn’t wanted to be left alone again. He was so tired of being alone. So he’d said yes, even though he hadn’t really been sure, and then…

Viktor’s vision blinds with tears, and he reaches a hand up, burying his fingers in his hair, pulling hard at it.

Oh God, Yura was right about him. He was right. He was such an idiot. He was so stupid.

“Viktor…”

“What’s wrong with me?” He cries, voice breaking apart, a harsh sob. “What’s wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you Viktor.” Dr. Sokolova starts, her own voice urgent. 

“Yes there is…” he cries, and he feels like he’s panicking. Like he’s going to drown in his panic. Oh God. Oh God. What had he let happen? What did it say about him, that he… that he didn’t even realize? Didn’t know? What did it say?

“Viktor, hey…”

Dr. Sokolova is standing in front of him suddenly. When had she gotten up from her seat? He hadn’t even noticed. She reaches out, taking hold of his hand still buried in his hair, gently prying his fingers free.

“I need you to breathe for me, okay? Remember our exercises? Deep breath Viktor, and hold it… one, two, three, four, five…”

Viktor tries. He tries to follow her, his breaths feeling shallow and erratic in his lungs. He’s hyperventilating, he thinks. He can hear his own, sharp gasps, loud and horrible in his ears. 

Everything was wrong with him. Everything. He wasn’t okay. He’d never been okay. He’d… he’d _let_ this happen to him. All of it. Through his own stupidity and ignorance and pitiful desperation. And then he was too much of a coward to even face the truth of it all. To admit to himself what it had really been. Yura had been right. He was a fool and a coward and a loser. He’d asked for it. For… for Vladimir… for those four men, that night… it had all be his own fault, for being weak. For being a naïve, stupid child.

He wanted Yuuri. Suddenly, overwhelmingly. He wanted Yuuri. He just wanted Yuuri.

“Okay, hold on. I’ll go get him.” He hears Dr. Sokolova’s voice say.

Had he said that out loud? He hadn’t even realized…

And then Yuuri is there. He’s there, and Viktor sobs brokenly, crumpling against his fiancé as Yuuri wraps him up in his arms, crying pathetically against his chest. Yuuri is talking to him. Shushing him and telling him it’s alright. It’s alright. 

He hears Yuuri ask the doctor what happened. Hears Dr. Sokolova start to say something in hushed, careful tones. 

Panic crushes down on Viktor’s chest again, and he gasps sharply. No… no, he doesn’t… he doesn’t want Yuuri to know. 

What would Yuuri think of him? When he realized Viktor didn’t even understand what… what consent really meant? 

“… best he tell you, I think. When he’s ready. It wouldn’t be my place to say.”

“Okay. Okay. Alright.” Yuuri agrees, and Viktor almost chokes on his relief, even as the crushing weight of the revelation makes him feel alone. So, so alone…

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this, with everything else. 

He doesn’t want this too…

//


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for this chapter containing a sex scene and dealing with what would probably be called unhealthy copping mechanisms. Also references to rape/noncon. Thank you again to everyone for all of your support!

_Viktor Nikiforov is… nothing like Yuuri had expected._

_Though… if he’s being honest with himself, he guesses he’d never really had any expectations to begin with. Because he’d never imagined he would actually get to meet Viktor Nikiforov. At least, not like this._

_In his wildest fancies, he’d dreamed of maybe placing well enough in a big, international competition to land on the podium, and maybe that way, someday, he’d get to stand next to Viktor during a medal ceremony. Sit next to him during a press conference. _

_If he was really lucky, maybe Viktor might actually notice him and say a few words to him._

_That was about as far as his hopes went, in that regard._

_It made the present reality all the more surreal._

_Viktor Nikiforov was currently skating in easy, lazy circles around the ice in front of him, hands at his back as he glided backwards, smooth, powerful crossovers carrying him to and away, looking so relaxed and sure of himself in his movements that it seemed he could belong nowhere else. Like he lived there on the ice. Like it was home._

_He was beautiful._

_This part of Viktor, Yuuri recognized. This part he knew._

_It was everything else about the man that still continued to stun him, even after nearly a month since he’d arrived here in Hasetsu._

_Viktor was…_

_Well, Viktor was like a child._

_Or maybe… more that he was childlike. _

_It still continued to be such a bizarre contrast to the poised, graceful and powerful figure Yuuri had come to associate with him as a competitor. _

_Out there on the ice, Viktor seemed like a god. He was perfection. Everything he did, every movement he made, was textbook in its precision and accuracy. He didn’t make_ mistakes. _Jumped quads like they were nothing. Easy as taking a breath. Executed dizzying, terrifying transitions into those jumps, the preparation seeming almost nonexistent with how complex the components were. Footwork which spoke of nothing but pure, unadulterated skating skill. That was all to say nothing of the worldly passion and emotional power he exuded out there, his face and body an absolute canvas of sincere feeling. Viktor looked like he meant everything. _

_Watching him skate, this close, Yuuri understood better than ever why this man was a five-time world and Grand Prix champion. A three-time Olympic gold medalist. _

_He was a freak. In the best sense of the word. _

_But off the ice…_

_Off the ice, Viktor was almost… awkward._

_Not almost… okay. He_ was _awkward. _

_He was so_ enthusiastic _about everything, unabashedly excited, to the point of embarrassment, even. _

_Whenever Yuuri took him sightseeing, Viktor had to stop at seemingly every little thing that caught his interest and ask a million questions about it. Wanted every time to take pictures in front of whatever it was with Yuuri and talk to the locals about what they thought or knew. He wanted to try any and every kind of food he could, and expressed so much pure joy at the taste of everything, exclaiming some Russian word with bubbling delight with each, new dish. _

_He loved to_ play. _He’d started countless pillow fights with Yuuri, his carefree happiness infectious, the both of them giggling helplessly as they slammed each other back and forth with the overstuffed sacks. He had found a bunch of old board games stashed away in some closet of the Onsen, covered in dust and which Yuuri had completely forgotten about until Viktor had presented them with a megawatt grin, exclaiming they should play. Half of them Viktor had no idea of the rules, and Yuuri had had to walk him through it, which seemed to do nothing to dim his enthusiasm. Nor did losing. Which, again, Viktor did the most of, considering he didn’t know half of them. _

_One day, after coming back from his run, Viktor had told him there was something he needed to show him out near the back of the Inn. Yuuri hadn’t gotten more than two steps outside, when Viktor had spun suddenly around, holding a plastic water pistol, soaking Yuuri from head to toe, laughing uproariously all the while. _

_There’d been several of the water guns, lying about the yard, all filled with water, and Yuuri hadn’t hesitated to grab one up himself and return the favor. Viktor had laughed even harder after getting doused. Apparently, at some point he’d had gone out to a toy store and purchased what must have been a thousand yen worth of the toy guns, and the two of them had engaged in a water fight for nearly two hours, each of them completely drenched by the end and laughing hysterically. _

_Maybe the craziest thing was that Viktor’s playfulness extended to the ice. _

_Not that he wasn’t taking his duties as Yuuri’s coach seriously. He was. He worked Yuuri hard, every day except on rest days. And Yuuri had already lost more than 15 pounds under Viktor’s grueling regimen. But there was always a point during the day when Viktor would put a halt to the serious business and simply want to have fun out there. _

_Like right now._

_“Yuuri! Come dance with me!” He calls across the ice, executing a series of ridiculously tight and quick twizzles off hand. Like it’s nothing. _

_Yuuri swallows, pushing out onto the ice and gliding towards his new coach. _

_Yuuri still feels nervous around him. _

_It doesn’t help that Viktor is so touchy feely. He hugs Yuuri constantly. Big bear hugs in which he wraps his entire body around you and squeezes tight._

_It also doesn’t help that Viktor always seemed to be flirting with him. Giving him sultry, half-lidded looks, leaning a little too close, like he wanted to kiss him or something, touching Yuuri’s cheek with delicate fingers, turning his face closer still. Though, really, that couldn’t be right. Why the hell would someone like_ Viktor freakin’ Nikiforov _flirt with a loser like him? The very idea was absurd. It just felt that way, sometimes. Sometimes, when Yuuri inevitably freaked out and ripped himself away, or, even a few times, shoved Viktor off of him, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of something almost like hurt flash in the Russian’s eyes. Hurt, and confusion. Though the expressions were always gone so quickly that Yuuri had convinced himself he was imagining all of it. _

_Viktor wasn’t_ into _him. He couldn’t be. That was just the way he was. Very hands on and maybe lacking a general sense of personal space. Viktor was kind of weird like that anyway. Like he forgot things all the time. Nothing important, it seemed. But he often didn’t remember if he’d said something or not. Forgot numbers. Forgot addresses. Every time he called his coach back in Russia, for example, he had to look the number up. That was strange, considering they’d been together for most of Viktor’s life. He got lost really easily as well. Literally. He never seemed to know where he was. More than a few times, Yuuri’s phone had rung and Viktor had been on the other line, telling him he was lost and asking Yuuri if he could please come get him.  
Sometimes Viktor had wandered pretty far from the Onsen. Other times, he was just around the corner, and somehow wasn’t able to find his way back. It was sweet, in a sad sort of way._

_There was a vulnerability to Viktor that Yuuri had never realized before, in all the interviews and press conferences he’d watched of the older man. He seemed almost fragile, in some way, though Yuuri couldn’t really place his finger on_ why. 

_Just sometimes there was a look about Viktor… He would look lost. Sad. There was something lonely about him at those times._

_Yuuri’s distracted from the thoughts now as he reaches Viktor at center ice, Viktor smiling bright at him as he reaches out, taking Yuuri’s hands in his own._

_Yuuri stares down at the smooth, pale skin of Viktor’s hands as they cover his own, marveling at the beautiful, tapered fingers, large knuckles and long palms. An artist’s hands, Yuuri thinks, his cheeks softly heating. _

_Everything about Viktor was beautiful though._

_“Yuuri! You did so well today! We’ll discuss how to improve on your triple axel tomorrow, even though it’s already excellent, truly! But I think we can call that good for today, yes?!”_

_“… O-oh, um… s-sure, yes. Okay.” Yuuri nods, feeling his face burn hotter at the sound of his own, stammering voice. God, he needed to get a grip! He couldn’t believe Viktor hadn’t just given up on him already, with what a mess he was._

_“We can dance Yuuri!? Yes? You’re such a beautiful dancer!”_

_Viktor’s accent is thicker when he gets excited, making it difficult at times to understand what he’s saying. For some reason, Yuuri finds in incredibly endearing._

_He smiles helplessly up at the Russian, nodding, and Viktor actually squeals in happiness._

_“Yay!” Viktor exclaims, and suddenly he’s swinging Yuuri’s arms, twirling him in a circle round the ice. Yuuri laughs, a bubbling, involuntary reaction._

_They hang onto each other’s hands, Viktor skating backwards, away from Yuuri and pulling him along round the rink. _

_Viktor’s eyes fix unwavering on Yuuri, his smile wide and blindingly bright, and Yuuri can’t stop giggling, a sharp thrill running through his stomach._

_Moments like these, he still couldn’t quite believe it was real. That he was standing face to face with_ Viktor Nikiforov! _Dancing with him on the ice, laughing with him. Couldn’t quite believe that Viktor was… was his_ friend. _It was like every wild, unimaginable fantasy he’d had growing up had somehow come true. And yet, still, it was more amazing than any fantasy he’d ever had._

_Viktor was… he was so wonderful. Such a sweet, loving man. _

_Maybe that was the most awing thing of all. _

_It wasn’t that Yuuri hadn’t known Viktor was a genuinely nice person. That had always been evident from his interviews and the way he conducted himself with his fans._

_But there was always the clichéd saying of never meeting your hero’s and such. Always the worry that you would be left disappointed by who they really were, behind the carefully crafted image._

_And it was true, Viktor wasn’t really anything like how Yuuri had imagine him. Yuuri had expected a worldly, sophisticated, untouchable man. Someone entirely beyond his reach._

_Instead he’d found a man who was kind almost to a fault. A man so openly friendly and affectionate, it at times broke Yuuri’s heart for how he knew it left Viktor vulnerable. _

_They continue spinning round the ice, faster and faster, until both of them are dizzy and laughing breathlessly._

_That’s how they collapse down onto the ice, Viktor pulling Yuuri down on top of him to break his fall._

_They’re both giggling like children still, the sound of their mirth echoing off the otherwise empty stands around them._

_Yuuri isn’t sure when it is they stop. _

_Only suddenly they both have, and Yuuri is sitting on top of Viktor, his hands against the older man’s chest, knees on either side of his hips._

_Viktor’s hands are curled loosely around Yuuri’s upper arms, staring up at him from his back._

_Their eyes meet, and for a moment, Yuuri feels frozen, time seeming to stop as they gaze at one another, his breath seeming to catch suddenly in his throat, unable to look away._

_And then Viktor is leaning up on his elbows, off the ice, closer to him, and Yuuri sees his eyes slip closed._

_Heat faces through his cheeks, down his neck, and lower, and for an instant, he sits locked in place, mind whirling with painful anticipation._

_His thoughts lurch in the next moment, dawning realization of what’s happening._

_He panics._

_His hands press harder against Viktor’s chest, inadvertently shoving him back down to the ice as Yuuri scrambles back off of him, falling backward and kicking away._

_Viktor’s expression changes into surprise, his eyes rounding wide, looking up at Yuuri as Yuuri pushes himself to his feet._

_“Yuuri?” He starts, voice thick with confusion._

_“I-I… uh… I… I have to go. I just… just remembered something I have to do. S-sorry! I’ll… I’ll see you later!”_

_“Yuuri, wait!” _

_But Yuuri just shakes his head, turning quickly and skating fast back towards the boards._

_“Yuuri, please wait!” He hears Viktor call behind him, and Yuuri can hear the hurt in his voice, raw and lost. He glances back over his shoulder as he reaches the boards, seeing Viktor just getting to his knees back at center ice, looking after him desperately.  
Something unpleasant works through his chest, something almost like guilt. But he can’t stay. He doesn’t know what this is. What it is that just happened._

_He just has to get away…_

//

Viktor is kissing him desperately, almost frantically, Yuuri thinks. 

He’s been acting this way since they’d gotten back from his therapist’s appointment, clingy to the point of being almost smothering, hanging off of Yuuri, seeking his affection like a drowning man grasping for purchase along a jagged, slippery rock.  
It has Yuuri on edge, but he doesn’t know what else to do but to reciprocate, desperate himself to ease Viktor’s obvious anxiety and upset.

He doesn’t know what had happened during Viktor’s session. What he and his therapist had discussed. Dr. Sokolova wouldn’t tell him. Viktor would need to, she’d said. Whatever it had been, though, it had obviously been something that had shaken Viktor deeply.

Yuuri needed to figure out some way to get Viktor to talk to him. But he could hardly find an opportunity now with Viktor all over him, his arms wrapped around Yuuri as he laid back on their bed, pulling him down to his lips and kissing him sloppily.

“Mmm, Viktor…” Yuuri tries, placing his hands gently on Viktor’s shoulders.

“Let’s have sex Yuuri.” Viktor breathes up at him, his eyes over-bright, almost stricken. 

“Viktor, I don’t…”

“Please Yuuri, can we have sex? Please, I need to be close to you.”

Yuuri frowns, conflicted.

He and Viktor hadn’t had actual sex since before the attack. Not with Viktor’s physical condition. They’d been physical, of course. But not actual intercourse. He still isn’t sure if Viktor is ready for that.

“Viktor, I’m just worried that maybe you aren’t ready.” He says honestly. “You’re still working on your physical strength and…”

“Please… _please Yuuri_, I need… I need you, please…”

Tears well in Viktor’s eyes, fast and thick, slipping from the corners, down his temples and into his hair.

Yuuri feels his heart sink.

God…

“… O-okay. Okay Viktor. If you really want that. Okay.”

“_Please_.” Viktor begs again, his hands reaching up, beginning to fumble with the buttons on Yuuri’s shirt.

Yuuri reaches up, taking gentle hold of Viktor’s wrists, stilling his movements.

“Hey, let me do it. Okay? Just… just relax, and I’ll take care of it.”

Viktor only stares up at him, his face open and almost scared as Yuuri lays his arms softly down at his sides.

He undresses himself first, thankful that both Yurio and Chris were out together right now with Makkachin, doing some shopping from what he understood.

Viktor’s eyes follow his movements, his gaze lingering over Yuuri’s torso as he pulls his shirt free, slipping it off his shoulders. 

Yuuri shoves down the swell of insecurity which lodges for a moment in his chest.

He was in good shape still. Toned and lean. And he knows, even if he wasn’t, Viktor would never look at him with anything but admiration. Viktor loved his body, whether in shape or flabby, as he tended to be in the off season. Not like Viktor himself, who was never out of shape.

Except now. Viktor wasn’t flabby. He was the painful opposite though. Skinny now to the point of looking emaciated.

Yuuri still hadn’t grown used to Viktor’s physical state, and he fights to keep his expression calm as he peels his fiancés shirt up, gently coaxing it over Viktor’s head and off, exposing his torso underneath.

Viktor’s lost even more weight in the last few weeks, his appetite having seemed to steadily decrease with the onset of his depression. His ribs stick out painfully stark against the pale expanse of his skin, his chest seeming almost shrunken and shriveled along with the concave dip of his stomach, his limbs having grown almost stick-like in their thinness. 

It’s no better as he gently removes Viktor’s pants and underwear, Viktor’s hip bones far too pronounced, jutting what seems almost painfully against his skin, his legs equally wasted away as his arms. It’s a horrible contrast to Yuuri’s memory of the thick, powerful muscle of what Viktor’s legs had once been, the strength of them making it more than obvious how it was Viktor had always been able to attain such incredible height on his jumps.  
He’s genuinely worried now about hurting Viktor. He’s certain he outweighs his fiancé, and Viktor looks so frail…

“Okay, just… I’m gonna get you ready. Alright?” He says quietly, taking gentle hold of Viktor beneath the bend in his knees, lifting his legs up and spreading them out a little around where he straddles his fiancé’s hips.  
Viktor nods up at him, his chest heaving. Tears still run from his eyes, down his temples.

Yuuri smiles weakly at him, thumbing the tears away before he forces himself to look away, towards their nightstand, where he quietly pulls a tube of lubrication from the drawer. 

Viktor continues to watch him as he coats his fingers with a good amount. They haven’t done this in several months, and he wants to be as careful and gentle as possible.

“… Can I?” Viktor starts, reaching up between where Yuuri straddles his hips.

Yuuri licks his lips, nodding vaguely.

Viktor’s hand around him is startlingly cold at first, and Yuuri sucks in a sharp breath at the sensation, gradually relaxing as Viktor begins to work him, gentle, smooth strokes up and down.

It isn’t long before Yuuri’s hard, a warm glow of pleasure building low in his gut, and he has to force himself to focus as he slips his hand between Viktor’s legs, slow and careful as he pushes a single finger inside.  
Viktor gasps sharply, his eyes falling closed, and Yuuri watches him swallow thickly as he methodically pushes in deeper.

“That okay?” He asks, and Viktor nods, eyes still closed and lips falling slightly apart.

Viktor continues to work him lethargically, the motion uneven and erratic as Yuuri slips a second finger inside of him, trying to loosen the muscle.

The room is quiet except for the sound of Viktor’s labored breathing.

“Oh God, Yuuri, p-please…” Viktor pleads after a few minutes, his hand stilling completely, his chest gasping. “Please, I want you…”

“Okay.” Yuuri says softly. “Okay.”

He slips his fingers free, scooting back a bit on Viktor’s lap to line himself up.

He goes in fairly easy, and Viktor’s reaction is immediate, his back arching against the mattress beneath, hands coming up, fingers tangling in his messy, silver strands.

Yuuri reaches down, taking hold of Viktor’s hands, prying them gently away and pushing them down onto the bed, lacing his fingers with them and holding on.

He starts to move slowly, gently rolling his hips forward, and Viktor’s voice reaches him in a weak whimper. He’s still crying, and Yuuri worries, praying he’s doing the right thing.

“It’s okay.” He assures softly. “It’s okay Vitya.”

He can feel Viktor’s penis, hard and trapped between both their stomach’s, and he lets go one of Viktor’s hands, reaching down to take hold of him.

Viktor whines at the contact, arching up into it. His hand squeezes harder around Yuuri’s, his other reaching up, gripping along Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Yuuri!” He gasps, and Yuuri rolls his hips forward again, dragging his hand up Viktor’s length, his thumb pressing against the head.

Viktor moans helplessly, and Yuuri bends closer, pressing his mouth to his in a kiss. Viktor kisses him back, that same, frantic desperation of earlier, his arm coming up, lying across Yuuri’s back, holding him close.

It feels good. It feels _really_ good, Yuuri not realizing until this moment how much he’d missed this with Viktor. He keeps up a steady rhythm, rolling his hips in slow, languid movements as he pushes into his fiancé, his hand working in tandem. 

Viktor gasps and moans beneath him, his eyes screwed shut, until, after a few minutes, Yuuri feels his body stiffen, a broken whimper slipping past his lips as he turns his head to the side, pressing his face into the pillow beneath him, and Yuuri feels the warm spill of Viktor’s spend dribble over his hand. A few more frantic thrusts of his own, and Yuuri finishes seconds after, a quiet groan escaping his throat as his orgasm washes through him. And then he’s collapsing on top of Viktor, his breathes labored and heavy.

For a long moment, Yuuri can only lie there, exhausted and warm in the afterglow, enjoying the heat of Viktor’s body beneath him.

He smiles, lifting his head finally to look down at him.

And feels his heart drop like a stone in his chest as he takes in Viktor’s face, turned aside, fresh tears slipping free from his squeezed shut eyes, features screwed up in seeming agony.

“Viktor? Viktor, what’s wrong? What is it?!”

Viktor doesn’t answer. Only lifts a hand, covering his face. A harsh sob slips past his teeth.

Panic seizes down on Yuuri’s heart, and he pushes himself up more fully.

Viktor is trembling beneath him, his body wracked by his own, broken sobs. He’s falling apart, his other hands pressing against his mouth as he tries to stifle the sound of his own crying, and Yuuri feels sick with fear.

“Oh… oh God, Vitya, sweetheart, please… please, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” He pleads, desperate and frightened. 

Viktor still doesn’t answer. Yuuri doesn’t think he can with how hard he’s suddenly crying. He sees Viktor shake his head, turning his face more to the pillow, like he’s ashamed, and Yuuri feels the burning sting of his own tears, pressing against the back of his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart… my sweet man, please…” Yuuri reaches down, cupping his palm to Viktor’s cheek. “please tell me what’s wrong? Is… was it the sex?”

“… N-no.” Viktor finally says something, his voice weak and shaking badly. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Vitya, no… no, it’s okay. You’re okay. Just… just take your time. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay though. Viktor was having a panic attack, or something similar. Yuuri could recognize it for how often it had happened to him. What was scaring him was that he didn’t know what had caused it, a sick dread twisting his stomach as he thought it was something he himself had done. 

Fuck… _Fuck_, he knew it hadn’t been a good idea for them to have sex so soon. Not when Viktor was already struggling so much. He should have known better. Should have refused. Viktor wasn’t thinking clearly right now, that much was obvious, and Yuuri had let his own sense of guilt blind him to what was best for his fiancé.

Something had happened. Something had happened back there at Dr. Sokolova’s office which had thrown Viktor into some kind of panicked state.

Yuuri knows he had to find out what it was. He has to, if he’s going to help Viktor.

“Viktor, is… is it because of what happened earlier? During your therapy session?”

“… I can’t… Yuuri, I-I’m sorry, I can’t…”

“Okay… That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me now. Just… come on. Come on, let’s sit up, okay? Can you sit up for me?”

Yuuri pulls back off of Viktor, reaching out to him. Gently he touches his fingers to Viktor’s hand, still over his face, coaxing it carefully away.

“Please, Vitya… come here.”

Viktor doesn’t struggle as Yuuri takes hold of him, pulling him up off his back and into his arms. He holds Viktor tight, cradling his head against his shoulder, carding his fingers through the fine strands of his silver hair. Viktor clings back desperately, his arms around Yuuri, and Yuuri can feel the warm wet of his tears soaking into his skin. Can feel the way Viktor trembles in his hold.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Yuuri tries to reassure, rocking him gently.

A wracking sob rattles through Viktor’s frame in response, the sound of it muffled against Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri feels so horribly useless suddenly. He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to say to make this better. To fix this.

“Oh, Vitya…”

“… He…” Viktor’s voice floats up to Yuuri’s ears, barely audible, shaking so badly Yuuri isn’t even sure he’s heard him right.

“What?” He asks.

“… I-I didn’t… I didn’t know. I thought, b-because I said yes… I thought that meant, b-but… Dr. Sokolova s-says… she says it was… was…”

Viktor is rambling, his accent coming so thick now Yuuri can hardly understand a word he’s saying.

“Viktor… Viktor, slow down sweety. I’m having trouble understanding what you’re saying. Just… just try to relax, it’s okay.”

“… Sh-she says it was rape… th-that he raped me…”

Viktor’s voice is a ragged sob, and Yuuri feels his own heart freeze suddenly in his chest, his mind going blank.

What?

“What are you talking about?” He blurts, his lips feeling numb around the words. “Viktor?”

Viktor clings more desperately to him still, falling apart in frantic weeping, unable to answer.

Yuuri’s head spins sickeningly. 

He couldn’t have heard that right. He thought… he thought Viktor had said…

But no… no. That couldn’t be. Did he mean the men who’d attacked him? But they hadn’t… Had they? No, the… the doctors who had treated Viktor would have mentioned something like that. And Viktor had said _he_. Not them. Who was he…? Who was he talking about?

Fear surges suddenly up from the pit of Yuuri’s stomach, threatening to close up his throat, his thoughts melding into a directionless, chaotic jumble of nonsense. 

“Viktor, wha… what are you talking about? Tell me what you’re talking about!”

Viktor does.

He tells Yuuri about a man named Vladimir. About a night, fourteen years ago, when Viktor had been a Junior still, competing in a regional competition… how he’d been lonely, and Vladimir had been an older skater who he’d felt attracted to… the shock he’d felt when Vladimir had spoken to him, shown an interest in him…

Viktor had been a virgin then… he’d been lonely. So lonely. He’d been a _child_.

He’d said yes, Viktor keeps repeating, over and over. He’d said yes, and so he’d thought that meant what happened was consensual. 

But no. It wasn’t. It fucking wasn’t.

That… man… he’d… he’d…

Yuuri feels suddenly like he can’t breathe.

He’d raped Viktor. When Viktor had been younger than Yurio was now. When he’d been _sixteen_.

And Yuuri thinks, suddenly, despairingly, of how he’d been a 12 year old boy, watching Viktor on television back then, in awe and oblivious to his hero’s suffering. How he’d watched Viktor and thought in blissful ignorance of how perfect Viktor’s life must be, taken in by his perfection on the ice, by the image of perfection, this beautiful, angelic boy on the television, smile wide and bright and kind. Yuuri had thought… oh, he’d never imagined how Viktor was suffering then. And something almost like guilt chokes his throat, his eyes burning viciously as tears well at their backs, pushing forward and out, streaming down his face.

Viktor had never told anyone. Never told a single person about what had happened. Until now. He’d carried the weight of this alone, all alone, for nearly half his life. God… oh God…

On top of all the other _shit_ he’d had dealt to him in his life. Not this too, Yuuri thinks, heart shattering. Not this too.


	29. Chapter 29

“Where is he?”

One glance at Katsuki is all Yakov needs to see the absolute distress of the young man.

It was the boy’s unusual calm over the phone when he’d called him less than an hour ago that had set alarm bells ringing in his head, though.

“_I need you to come over. I need to talk to you about something, about Viktor._” He’d said.

When Yakov had asked if Viktor was alright, Katsuki had told him bluntly, “_No. He’s not._”.

That was enough to get Yakov to drop what he was doing and come rushing over.

“I gave him something to help him sleep.” Katsuki tells him, stepping aside to let him in the apartment. “So he’s just resting in our room. Yuri and Chris are still out. I called them and told them I was gonna need the apartment to myself for a few more hours, so we shouldn’t have to worry.”

Yakov nods, letting himself into the apartment.

Viktor’s fiancé stands aside and watches silently as he removes his coat and hat, hanging them on the rack by the door, before he leads him to the kitchen, pulling out a chair for Yakov to sit.

“Well?” He asks as Katsuki takes the seat across from him.

The young man clasps his hands over the table, his face turning away from Yakov. He’s fidgeting. Uncertain. Delaying, it seems to the old coach, and he can feel his patience already starting to wear thin.

“Out with it, boy! What’s happened?!” He snaps, unable to help himself. 

Katsuki’s face crumples for a moment, such a nakedly pained expression passing over his features that Yakov feels real alarm.

“… Tell me.” He urges more gently this time. 

He can feel his heart beating uncomfortably against his ribs, the ever present worry he felt over Vitya shoving its way violently to the forefront.

He never stopped worrying about that boy. And especially now, with everything. He knew Viktor had been going through a bout of depression. He’d thought, on the way over, maybe it was that. Maybe he’d gotten worse, and Katsuki needed help coping. But looking at the young man now, Yakov can tell it’s something else.

“… Do… do you remember a pairs skater named Vladimir Fedorov?”

Yakov frowns, uncertain why Katsuki would be asking about an unremarkable skater who, as far as he knew, hadn’t been competitive for well over a decade.

“Yes.” He answers. “He was from a rival club here in Petersburg. Unremarkable. But yes, I remember him from competitions. He must be retired for some 11 or 12 years now.”

The look on Katsuki’s face is unlike any Yakov’s ever seen from the boy. Behind the sheen of his glasses, his eyes flash with something like fury, his mouth pulled into a tight, angry line.

“Did you ever see him talking to Viktor? Back then?”

Yakov blinks, his confusion only amplifying. 

“… Vitya was a junior then.” He starts, uncertain. He doesn’t know why Katsuki is asking him about some skater he barely knew. “I don’t think they would have had much interaction. I never saw them speak to one another. Although…”

Now that Yakov was remembering…

“I think maybe Vitya had a bit of a crush on him. He was a nice looking boy, if I’m remembering right, but…” he shakes his head. “Vitya was taken with every nice looking boy back then. He was… well… he was developing. His hormones were probably going crazy.”

Katsuki looks anything but amused, his expression pulling tighter, lips turning severely down at the corners.

“He never said anything to you? About this guy? He never mentioned anything? Never mentioned them getting together even?”

Yakov shakes his head, frustrated.

“What is this about Katsuki? Viktor was… listen, as far as I know, Viktor never had an actual boyfriend until he was maybe 20, 21 years old. And even then, it never lasted more than a few months. He’s never had good luck with that sort of thing. Not until he met you, at least. You must know by now the picture the media pants of him as some sort of playboy is completely false. They say that about him because he’s charming and good looking. I don’t need to tell you this. But he’s always been shy around boys. Especially back then. It took him a long time to build any confidence, because of the way his parents treated him, and other people.”

Katsuki is hedging again, stalling.

There’s that flash of pain in his eyes once more, suddenly over-bright.

“… He told me something, about Vladimir Federov. He told his therapist earlier today, about… about something that happened between them. And then he told me. I don’t… I don’t know if I should tell you. I don’t know if Viktor would want me to, but… God… oh God…”

Yakov is beginning to feel truly uneasy now, Katsuki’s distress putting him on edge. Something about this, about the way he was talking about this nothing skater from so long ago…

“What?” He asks. “What happened between him and Viktor?” 

Katsuki’s face lines in agony, turning aside.

“I don’t know if I should tell you.” He repeats weakly, voice wavering, and suddenly Yakov knows. 

He just fucking _knows_.

Horror blooms in his chest, threating to choke him as it reaches into his throat. It feels, for a moment, like the floor had dropped out from underneath him.

He shakes his head, standing from his seat and stepping back.

“… No.”

Katsuki looks up at him, frowning.

Yakov shakes his head again.

“Don’t tell me this Yuuri.” He stammers.

This couldn’t be. This couldn’t have happened. He would have _known_. He _would have_. There’s no way something like that could have happened without him knowing, without him knowing something was _wrong_.

He wants desperately to believe it in that moment. Needs to believe he wouldn’t have let something like that happen to Viktor. Needs to believe because, otherwise… otherwise, that means he’d failed him again. Means he’d failed Viktor in the worst way possible. 

But the look on Katsuki’s face tells him. The ruined, devastated look.

No…

He turns away, burying his face in his hands.

“… He raped him.” 

There’s a silence behind him that stretches to forever it seems, and then he hears Katsuki say, voice barely a whisper…

“Yes.”

He barely registers his knees giving out from under him. Barely hears the startled shout at his back, or feels Katsuki’s arms catching him, lifting him up off the floor.

“Yakov! Yakov, oh my God!”

Yakov blinks up at Katsuki, wondering, absurdly, how it is the boy managed to move so fast. To catch him before he hit the floor.

“… What happened?” He asks dumbly.

“Y-you fell. You fell down.” Katsuki stammers, frightened sounding. “Are you dizzy? Are you…?”

“I’m fine, I’m just…” Yakov grunts, shaking his head.

He isn’t dizzy. He’s… he’s…

He’s crying, he realizes, feeling the wet warmth of tears down his face.

“Yakov…”

“When?” He chokes out. “When did it happen?”

There’s a heavy silence then, and Yakov nearly growls the question again before Katsuki’s voice stops him.

“… When he was 16.” He says softly. “D… during a regional, he said.”

Yakov’s mind strains to remember. Thinking back to then. Christ, it was so long ago, and there’d been so many meets, Viktor moving rapidly up the ranks then, taking the whole skating world by storm…

Only…

He does remember. One meet… one competition. Early on in the season, that year. A regional. 

Viktor had done horribly. Uncharacteristically horrible, putting in the worst performance he’d had since… since as far back as Yakov had been able to remember since taking the boy on as his pupil. 

He remembers Viktor had flubbed every single one of his jumping passes. Had even fallen during a fairly simple step sequence.

He remembers the score had been something atrocious. The worst of Viktor’s young career then. 

He remembers Viktor fleeing in tears, locking himself in one of the arena’s bathrooms. That it had taken Yakov what seemed forever to find him.

He remembers when finally he had, it had taken another half hour for the boy to emerge from the stall he’d locked himself in, and when he had, he’d fallen into Yakov’s arms and sobbed brokenly. 

Yakov had put it down to Viktor’s performance. The boy was so unused to losing, he’d thought, especially like that. Hadn’t failed to make the podium for more than two years, at that point. Losing was difficult, especially in this sport, where the athlete was out there on the ice totally alone and in front of so many people, their every mistake and failing put on full display for the world to see. 

There was nowhere to hide, out there on the ice. It was a brutal, unforgiving sport. More so than any other Yakov could name.

And Viktor had always been such a sensitive boy.

And so he’d thought… he’d been so sure…

Something else comes back to him then, suddenly, and his feels his stomach drop out from under him in mortification.

At the end of the meet… the next day, and he and Viktor and the rest of the team had been checking out of the hotel, ready to head the airport.

That skater… Vladimir Federov… he’d been down there, in the lobby. Yakov remembers him, as he’d been standing at the front desk, checking out, the pairs skater had been there, across the room, talking to other members of his own team.

Yakov remembers the man looking over at him at one point. Viktor had been standing at Yakov’s side, unusually sullen and quiet, and he remembers…

He remembers Viktor’s hand had shot out, grasping hold of Yakov’s arm, his grip tight enough to hurt. And when he’d looked over at his student, the look on his face… Yakov won’t ever forget that look. The stricken, terrified expression. He’d been looking off in the direction of Fedrov… but Yakov hadn’t realized… hadn’t put it together.

He’d asked Viktor what was wrong, the boy’s pale skin having grown ashen. Viktor had just looked up at him with glassy eyes, stammering out that he wanted to go. 

Yakov had thought the boy must be feeling sick, had asked one of his senior skaters to go get Viktor a Powerade from a nearby vendor.

He’d thought so many stupid, stupid things and they’d all been fucking wrong.

Because he hadn’t been paying attention. Because he’d been a blind, stupid old fool who’d failed to protect a boy who’d relied on him. Who’d had no one else in the world, and Yakov had let this happen. How could he have let this happen!? How could he have not _known_?!

“Damn it… _damn it_…” he hisses, teeth grinding together, a horrible helplessness washing through him. 

“I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry Yakov.” Katsuki is saying beside him. “I didn’t mean to… I shouldn’t have, j-just… I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do… he’s s-so… he’s so hurt already and I don’t know how to help him anymore. God, I don’t know how.”

Katsuki is crying now too, a harsh sob pushing past his lips to tear through the apartment. 

Yakov stares at the floor.

The two of them must look pathetic, he thinks distantly, sitting there. An old and a young man, clinging to each other, crying. Useless.

“… I don’t know either.” He hears himself whisper. He can’t remember the last time he’d felt this helpless. This clueless. He hates it, guilt like a vice clamping down on his mind, threatening to consume him.

“… W-we need to figure this out. How… how to help him. Wi-with the trial coming up, and he’s… he’s still struggling so much with his physical therapy. I don’t know… I don’t know how he’s supposed to handle all of this. We need to help him Yakov, s-somehow.”

“I know Yuuri.” Yakov answers, trying to think. 

He still can’t believe it. Still can’t wrap his mind around that this _happened_ to Vitya. That he hadn’t _noticed_.

But then… maybe he had, without ever realizing it.

The way Viktor had waited so long before really trying to date anyone. The way he’d always seemed so hesitant… so unsure around other boys…

Yakov had just put it down to Viktor’s shy nature. But then… Viktor had begun to grow out of his shyness right around that time, hadn’t he? Right around the age of 16, 17? 

And then, when he’d begun to really date… to go out… there’d always been a desperation to Viktor’s attempts to start a relationship. A reckless abandon to throw himself wholeheartedly into whatever the situation may be, and it always, _always_, ended in Viktor crushed and hurt and lost.

It was why Yakov had been so distraught when Viktor had decided to abandon his skating career to go flying off to Japan to coach some second-rate skater who’d bombed out at the Grand Prix and hadn’t even qualified at Nationals…

He’d thought Viktor was setting himself up once again for heartbreak. Only it was worse, because he was jeopardizing his career in the process this time. The one thing Vitya had always had to hold in to…

In retrospect, of course, it was maybe the best decision of Viktor’s life, going to Japan.

Yakov had never seen the boy so happy as he was when Yuuri had come here to Russia to be with him. 

It was the happiest Yakov had ever seen Vitya in his entire life. The most at peace.

Yakov felt nothing but gratitude towards the young man now sitting at his side. Nothing but respect.

He’d made Vitya happy, when no one and nothing else ever really had. Not even the boy’s skating…

“We’ll figure this out.” Yakov says now. “We will.”

He just doesn’t yet know how…

//

“… Thanks again, for coming, I mean.” Yuri starts, feeling awkward as he glances up at Chris by his side. “It means a lot to Viktor.”

The older skater smiles down at him, green eyes bright.

“Of course. I only wish I could have come sooner.”

“Yeah, well… you know Viktor woulda’ lost it if you dropped outta the season too, so…” 

“… I know.” Chris says, his voice quiet, suddenly subdued.

Silence falls between them again as they walk. It’s fucked up. Yuri doesn’t really know Chris as well as Viktor does. Obviously, he thinks. Freakin’ Katsuki had barely said a word to either of them when he’d come home with Viktor from his therapy session. 

Viktor had been visibly distressed about something, and Yuri had wanted to know what the fuck had happened, but Katsuki wouldn’t say shit. 

Chris was the one who’d actually had to convince Yuri to come with him, making up some lame excuse that they needed to go shopping, practically dragging Yuri out the door.

Yuri glances up at him again.

Chris was tall. Taller than Viktor, even, with a powerful, broad frame, and not for the first time, Yuri can’t help imagining if Chris had been with Viktor, that night. 

He thinks, if Chris had been with Viktor, the two of them could have fought those bastards off maybe. 

It’s useless, thinking things like that. But he can’t help it. He wishes he had been there that night. And Katsuki too. If all of them had only been with Viktor…

“How have things been?” Chris asks suddenly. “It was wonderful of you to move in with them, but I know it must be difficult, being away from your Grandfather.”

Yuri shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He kicks a rock along the ground.

“I mean, I’m not gonna lie. Viktor’s been fucked up. He’s been depressed. And… well, you saw him before we left. I don’t know. We got into a big fight about a week ago too. He actually yelled at me.”

“Really?!” Chris stops, staring down at Yuri in obvious surprise.

“I know.” Yuri shrugs again. “Viktor never yells at anyone. But I was being a fucking dick, so I deserved it.”

Chris laughs.

“You must have been being a major dick to get Viktor to yell. In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him raise his voice at a single person.”

“That’s what we were fighting about. I told him he was too fucking nice and…”

Yuri trails off, remembering the awful things he’d said to Viktor, shame choking his throat.

Chris is silent a moment.

“… If it’s any consolation, Viktor _is_ too nice, Yuri.” He starts finally. “I’ve told him that myself, many times.”

“You have?” Yuri asks, unable to hide his surprise.

“Of course. Perhaps not so bluntly as I suspect you said it. But I’ve told him before that he should be careful. That he trusts too easily. You’ve known Viktor long enough to know that he’s kind to a fault, and I know you have enough experience to know there are plenty of people in the world who are more than willing to take advantage of that.”

Yuri huffs, continuing forward.

“Yeah. I just… I mean, I was a total douche about it and said some shit I fucking shouldn’t have, but it’s just because I don’t want people fucking with Viktor anymore. I’m sick of all these fucking assholes hurting him!”

“I know.” Chris says gently. “I feel the same. Viktor is…” 

There’s a pause, and Yuri hears Chris sigh.

“He’s an unusual man.”

“He’s a fucking nerd.” Yuri snips, and Chris laughs again.

“Well, yes. He’s most definitely a nerd. Remind me to tell you about the Troll doll collection he used to have sometimes.”

“Wait, seriously?!” Yuri starts.

“Oh yes. Viktor was quite the avid collector when he was younger. He eventually donated the whole thing. But he was very into it. Would scour the internet for hours looking for rare editions and all that.”

Yuri can’t help the loud bark of laughter which slips past his lips.

“Jesus. I’m gonna have so much fun laughing at him over this.”

“Now don’t be too unkind, Yuri. It was actually quite adorable. He even named each doll he had and bought different outfits for them.”

“Oh my God.” Yuri grins. “This is fucking priceless.” He points up at the older man. “I can’t be held responsible for my actions now. You’re the one who told me.”

Chris smiles indulgently at him.

“Really Yuri, don’t tease poor Viktor too badly. But… going back to the topic, what I meant to say is… this is going to sound strange to you, probably. But I can only describe Viktor as an innocent. He has the innocence of a child. You understand? He doesn’t understand cruelty. And I think… well, he has a hard time seeing cruelty in others because of that. Because he doesn’t really have it in himself. He looks at everyone and thinks they must mean well, because he means so well. You see? He can’t understand why anyone would ever be less than kind or want to hurt another person.”

“Pff! But how can he think like that when so many people have shit all over him his whole life!? Everyone’s always been a fucking bastard to him!”

“Yes. Because of course we know people are shit. We know it because we have it in us to be unkind ourselves, as you’ve just learned about yourself, yes?” Chris shakes his head, a pained expression passing suddenly over his handsome features. “Viktor isn’t like that though. He’s… well, he breaks your heart for how sweet he is.”

There are tears in Chris’ eyes then, lines etching into his face as he struggles to control his emotion.

“He can’t change that about himself, I don’t think.” He goes on after a moment. “I… I don’t think we should want him to either. There are enough assholes in the world, aren’t there Yuri?”

“… Yeah.” Yuri answers, his own voice thin, the backs of his eyes stinging. “There are.”

“And anyway, some may take it as weakness, that Viktor continues to be as trusting and kind as he is, despite the hardship he’s endured in his life, but if you ask me, I think it makes him the strongest out of all of us. That he hasn’t changed… that he hasn’t become like them, even as they’ve done their damndest to try and make him.”

Whatever amusement Yuri had felt at Chris’ story about Viktor and his troll dolls washes away. He stuffs his hands back into the pockets of his coat, turning and continuing down the sidewalk.

“… Yeah.” He answers softly.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to all my readers and reviewers! I appreciate you all so much! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include homophobic language and descriptions of unwanted sexual advances.

Chris makes sure to keep the rap of his knuckles against the door light, pushing it gently open and sticking his head inside.

The room is dark, save for the soft glow of a nightlight sitting on one of the beside tables.

He spots Viktor quickly, lying on the bed. He’s facing the door, and Chris can see in the low light that his eyes are open, staring, it seems, into nothing.

He’s been in here all day, ever since he and Yuri had gotten back with Makkachin from running errands. Yuuri had told them both that Viktor was sleeping when they returned, but that had been well over five hours ago, and Yuuri had finally admitted that Viktor was going through a hard time. That something had happened during one of his therapy sessions which had been deeply upsetting, though Yuuri refused to say what that was, despite young Yuri’s demands that he tell them. 

Yuuri just kept shaking his head, saying “I can’t.”. Whatever it was, it had left Viktor’s fiancé in a state of extreme agitation, and Yakov as well, the old coach informing everyone he was staying the whole weekend. No one would say anything though, and Chris had been unable to stand it a moment longer when Viktor had failed to respond to Yuuri’s announcement of dinner, refusing to come out , even after Yuuri had asked him if he would come out to eat with them. 

Chris had said he was going to go talk to Viktor, and no one had protested. 

And so here Chris was.

“Hey…” he calls gently. “mind if I come in?”

He sees Viktor’s eyes blink, but otherwise unmoving as he continues to stare ahead of him at the wall.

Chris feels his heart sink, deciding no protest was as good as a yes in this situation. He couldn’t leave Viktor like this. Whatever it was that had happened.

“… Hey there Champ. You feeling bad?” He asks gently as he comes up beside the bed.

Viktor looks horrible, lying there with his hair a mussed tangle, smatters of silver stubble beginning to present itself over his chin, face drawn and pale and gaunt in a way that makes him look so much older than he is. He’s painfully thin, and a kind of alarm chokes Chris’ throat, a sudden, urgent need to get Viktor to at least _try_ and eat something. His eyes are glassy and red rimmed, like he’s been crying, and something wretched twists inside Chris’ chest.

He forces himself to sit carefully on the edge of the mattress, hoping Viktor is okay with it.

Viktor shows no sign one way or the other. Doesn’t say anything.

“Viktor… sweetheart…” Chris starts softly, reaching out slowly and brushing his friend’s bangs back up off his head. “Don’t you want to come out and have dinner with all of us? Even Yakov’s here. We both know how enjoyable his company can be.”

He tries to make his voice lighthearted, but feels it fall flat when Viktor doesn’t show any sign of amusement. 

This was bad. Chris doesn’t think he’s ever seen Viktor _this_ deeply depressed. It was no wonder both Yuuri and Yakov seemed so distressed themselves. 

“Viktor…”

“I’m sorry.” Viktor’s voice cuts him off, a choked, strained sound. “I’m sorry Chris…”

Viktor’s face turns further into the pillow under his head, hiding against it, and Chris sees the hard tremor which works through his friend’s shoulders, and he knows he’s crying.

“Oh, no, no, no, mon cher… none of that. None of that now. What do you have to be sorry for?”

Chris presses a firm hand to the middle of Viktor’s back, just holding it there. He can feel the hard shutters working through the older man’s frame, and his heart breaks.

Viktor begins to babble something in Russian, his voice muffled by the pillow, and Chris can’t understand a word he says.

“Darling, please… English, or French? I don’t speak Russian, much to my endless shame, I know.”

“… I’m ruining everything. I kn-know I’m ruining everything. I’m sorry. I’m sorry Chris. You came all the w-way here to s-see me and I’m… I can’t even get out of bed for you. I’m sorry.”

“Viktor,”

“Y-you win your first Olympic Gold medal. We… we should be celebrating but all… all I do is think of m-myself, and… and Yuuri makes dinner and Yakov comes e-even though I know he’s so busy and… and I know I’m so selfish and… and I’m sorry. I’m sorry Chris. I’m sorry.”

“Viktor, oh… please stop apologizing. My sweet man… you’re making me cry. Please stop. Don’t you understand you’ve done nothing wrong?”

It’s a ridiculous question, Chris knows. Very clearly, Viktor doesn’t understand that at all.

It was just so terrible, listening to him beat himself up like this, after all he’d been through. God…

He reaches up, pulling his glasses from his face and slipping them into the collar of his shirt. 

“But I’ll tell you what, mon cher, if you would come out and have dinner with all of us, it would be so wonderful. Don’t you think so? Even if you only eat a little, it would mean so much to everyone here. Just to see you.”

He reaches out, brushing Viktor’s hair back again, massaging his fingers against his friend’s scalp.

There’s a long stretch of silence, Viktor’s erratic, short breaths the only sound in the room, until Chris hears him, his voice muted, almost too soft to make out.

“… I’m ashamed of myself Chris.”

Chris blinks, forcing his own, immediate protest back down his throat.

This is one aspect of Viktor he’s never really understood.

From any outsider’s perspective, Viktor would seem to have the ideal existence. He was incredibly handsome, and unfairly gifted, both as a figure skater, and as a man possessed of immense charisma. Smart (even if he could be somewhat flighty at times), funny, and able, it seemed, to command attention wherever he went.

Of course, Chris knew Viktor’s life had been far from ideal. Knew also that, even with his incredible talent, he’d had to work just as hard and dedicate himself just as much as anyone else in their field to achieve what he had. That his life had been full of hardships and uncertainties and heartbreaks unknown to most. That’s he’d struggled and fought with everything he had to make it to the point he had in his life, against all odds.

Objectively, Chris understood then that Viktor’s sometimes tendency towards self-deprecation was likely a very real result of the abuse and mistreatment he’d suffered at the hands of not only his parents, but the various bullies he’d had to deal with when he’d been a boy in school growing up.

But still… it was always strange to him, to realize Viktor could think so little of himself, when he was so accomplished, and when he was so _good_.

And it wasn’t any kind of false humility, or anything of that sort.

Viktor would genuinely have bouts, like the one he was clearly going through now, where it seemed to Chris like his best friend believed he’d deserved all the horrible cruelties he’d endured in his life. Like somehow he’d brought it all on himself, when the reality of course was that Viktor hadn’t brought a single instant on himself. He’d been a child when most of those cruelties had been committed against him. And even now, as an adult, he continued to be subjected to the lowest and darkest capacities of human unkindness, while he himself remained unendingly kind. 

He thinks, suddenly, of the conversation he’d had earlier with young Yuri, and how he’d tried explaining to the boy how Viktor was still very much like a child himself, and how Yuri hadn’t been entirely off the mark, when he’d lamented over Viktor’s too trusting nature. 

Chris understands Yuri’s frustrations, often having found himself wishing Viktor could be a bit more discerning towards whom he chose to open himself up to. But then, he’d meant what he’d told Yuri as well, that to change Viktor would be itself an injustice.

It wasn’t Viktor who needed changing. It was the rest of the world and it’s ugly, cynical attitude.

It was pushing this idea that Viktor was somehow the one at fault that led to this sort of thing now. To Viktor apologizing for something he hadn’t even done. 

Viktor was too kind, too nice for his own good. But he wasn’t the one who was wrong. 

“Viktor, my love… listen to me a moment, will you? I know you’re older than me, but honestly, we both know who the more mature of the two is. Oui? Come here …”

He reaches out, slipping his hands beneath Viktor’s shoulders and lifting him until he’s sat up. He tries to ignore how light Viktor feels. How easily he can maneuver him. 

It’s hard, looking at Viktor now. Still a shock, to see the clouded, unseeing orb of his right eye. The still fading, thick white scar which runs from beneath his hairline, down around his temple and orbital bone. A perpetual reminder of what’s been done to him, marring his once perfect features. It hasn’t ruined Viktor’s face. He’s still incredibly handsome. But… it’s noticeable. Stark and plain for anyone to see. Disturbing, for how Viktor never sees anyone approach, never hears them, when they come at him on his right side. More than once since arriving, Chris has accidentally startled his best friend when he’d carelessly forgotten.

He knows, when Viktor is able to once more stand and walk, his balance will essentially be destroyed. He’ll have to relearn everything. He tries to shove the thoughts away. Tries to focus on the present.

He keeps his hands on Viktor’s shoulders, bony through the thin material of his t-shirt, keeping his eyes on his friend’s face.

“I think I must be losing my hearing in my old age, mon cher. I thought I heard you say you were ashamed of yourself. But I must have heard wrong, because could there be a more absurd notion?”

Viktor blinks up at him, his eyes glassy and red. His lips tremble.

Chris forces himself to smile at him.

“Darling boy, you forget who you are. If you feel ashamed, I fear there’s precious little hope for the rest of us. After all, you’re only the greatest figure skater in the history of the sport, and only the most genuine, kind-hearted and sincere human being I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. What have you to be ashamed of Viktor?”

He watches as Viktor’s bloodshot eyes fill with fresh tears, sleeping free and down his too thin face in silent tracks. Watches as his face crumples, turning aside.

Chris’ own eyes burn dangerously, and he doesn’t think, only wraps his arms around his friend, pulling Viktor against his chest in a tight hug.

“Oh, it’s alright. It’s alright Viktor. Come on. Come here.”

Minutes pass, Chris squeezing Viktor back tightly as Viktor lies against him, his own arms weak as they wrap around Chris’ waist, his face buried against his shoulder.

After a time, there comes a soft knock at the door, and looking back over his shoulder, Chris sees Yuuri standing there, along with Makkachin at his side.

“Hey,” he calls quietly. “… how’s it going?”

“Hey, we’re alright. Come on in.” Chris nods at him, and Yuuri steps into the room, Makkachin lopping forward with him. 

She comes running up to the bed, immediately jumping up onto it and pressing herself against Viktor’s side.

Viktor’s arms loosen from around Chris so he can turn and hug his dog, and Chris watches as he presses his face to the top of Makkachin’s head.

“I just set the plates down. Um… Vitya, if you’re hungry?” Yuuri starts gently.

“He is hungry. Aren’t you darling? Won’t you come out and join us? Please?”

Viktor is still for a moment, his face hidden against Makkachin’s fur, and Chris feels a wave of relief wash through him when he at last gives a weak nod.

He glances at Yuuri, seeing the younger man’s own shoulders slump in relief.

“I’ll get the chair.” He starts, moving to the foot of the bed, where Viktor’s wheelchair sits, rolling it around.

“Do I…?” Chris starts, realizing he hadn’t yet seen Viktor out of his chair since arriving. Obviously, he was still using it, but he thinks he’d been remiss in failing to find out if Viktor could walk at all yet, or if he still needed to be carried. “I mean, if you need help getting into your chair Viktor, I can…”

“You can support him.” Yuuri answers before Viktor can. “Put his arm over your shoulders and your arm around his waist. Just help maneuver him down into the seat.”

“Of course.” Chris nods.

Viktor keeps his face turned away as Chris does as Yuuri instructed, helping his friend up off the bed. He knows this has to be humiliating for Viktor, even as he tries to shove such thoughts from his mind and simply focus on helping.

He’s bearing most of Viktor’s weight, he can tell, Viktor’s legs barely functioning to hold himself up as he leans heavily against Chris’ side and over his shoulders. 

Even the few inches they have to travel to the waiting chair is enough to punch the air from Viktor’s lungs, and he’s breathing heavily by the time they’ve got him situated.

Chris can’t help but imagine how arduous his friends physical therapy sessions must be, if even this little exercise winds him this badly, and he feels an uncomfortable twist in his chest at the thought.

Viktor was a world class, elite athlete. So was Chris. He couldn’t begin to imagine how difficult it must be, to go from the level of fitness they all were used to, to where Viktor was now. 

“Th-thank you.” Viktor practically gasps now, his hands folding over the arms of the chair, gripping it white knuckled.

“Of course darling.” Chris smooths his hand over Viktor’s head, bending down and pressing a kiss to his crown.

Yuuri’s own hand comes up, gripping Chris’ arm and giving a gentle squeeze. He nods up at Chris in acknowledgment, and Chris smiles weakly back.

There’s obvious tension in the air as they roll Viktor out into the dining area where Yuri and Yakov are already seated at the table.

Nobody’s touched their food yet, waiting to see if Viktor would be joining them or not.

As soon as they’re spotted, Yakov stands from his seat, and Chris doesn’t fail to notice the way his hands are clenched at his sides, his jaw tight as his eyes fall on Viktor, an obviously pained expressing lining his features.

“Look who’s decided to grace us all with his holy presence!” Chris tries to tease, hoping to relieve some of the tension between all of them. 

“H-hey Viktor…” Yuri starts as Yuuri pushes Viktor up to the dining table, situating his chair between where he and Chris will be sitting. He sounds unusually timid. “It… it’s cool of you to come eat with us. I mean… it’s nice.”

Viktor’s face looks strained as he forces himself to smile at the younger man. 

Chris thinks it must be plainly obvious to everyone here that Viktor’s been crying, his eyes still red and face blotchy from his tears. He looks haggard, the fine lines around his eyes and mouth more pronounced than usual.

“… I’m sorry for keeping you all waiting.” He says, voice rough and quiet, and Chris glimpses the way Viktor’s hands tighten in his lap, squeezing together what seems painfully. 

“Nonsense.” Yakov snaps. “We’ve only just sat down.”

It comes out probably harsher than the old coach intends it too, as most things from Yakov’s mouth do. Viktor’s eyes shift up to him, and he smiles weakly. He knows Yakov didn’t mean to sound so gruff. Viktor’s always understood that about his steely coach.

Chris has always found Viktor’s relationship with Yakov fascinating.

The two of them couldn’t be more different if they tried.

Yakov was like a steel wall. Cold and stiff and impenetrable. To anyone who’d only just met him, or talked to him in passing, he would seem incredibly unfriendly, and maybe even a little mean. Intimidated for sure. Certainly not the type of person who invited a sense of comfort or familiarity. The exact opposite of Viktor, who was so unfailingly sweet and open, and made you feel you could say anything to him and face no judgment. Who smiled so readily and with so much abandon, that it was hard to picture him with any other expression, half the time. 

Chris could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen Yakov smile, and each of those times only after Viktor had won yet another gold medal. Even then, the expression was tight and reserved. He would pat Viktor on the back and say something along the lines of “Good job, boy.”. That was about the extent of his praise.

But Viktor would always light up like the sun at it, throwing his arms around Yakov in one of his characteristic bear hugs, and Yakov, to Chris’ persistent surprise, would hug Viktor back, his posture always rigid and unsure, but never denying his prized student the affection he sought.

Yakov loved Viktor. Chris knew that with a certainty he knew very little else. He’d basically raised him, after all. Him and Lilia. When Viktor’s parents had abandoned him, and even before that, really, given how emotionally unavailable Viktor’s parents had always been anyway. How cruel they’d been, even.

And Viktor loved Yakov. He saw the old coach as a father. 

Before Yuuri had come into his life, Yakov had always been the first person Viktor would think of when he was in some kind of distress. The first person to call for help. And Yakov was always there. He’d never let Viktor down, as far as Chris knew. He’d never failed to come when Viktor needed him.

It was only ever with Viktor that Chris had seen Yakov’s hardened exterior soften. Only ever with Viktor that Yakov’s voice could change from the hard edged snap of a tired and aggravated world class figure skating coach to a rough, but tender whisper offering comfort and kindness. 

Chris supposes it was impossible not to melt around Viktor, if even just a little. Even for a man as world weary and jaded as Yakov plainly was. Viktor just had that effect on people.

Like he made the world seem less awful, and made you feel less awful for it.

“Well, now that we’re all here, I guess we can… um…” Yuuri gestures vaguely at the spread of food around the table, before awkwardly taking his seat beside Viktor. Chris does the same, and Yakov follows.

The five of them eat in a heavy silence for a while, the sound of their cutlery on the plates seeming too loud in the quiet room.

Chris can’t help but take notice of how much Viktor struggles with his own utensils. His fingers don’t seem to want to grasp the fork and knife in his hand with any real dexterity, and Chris feels his throat close up with sudden, overwhelming grief, eyes burning.

He turns away as Yuuri leans over, his steady hands folding over Viktor’s own, trembling ones, stilling them gently and helping him to cut up the piece of chicken he’s struggling with.

God…

He’d known Viktor had suffered nerve damage. He just hadn’t yet seen the results of it in action like this. It makes him feel helpless and sick. A nauseating mixture of rage and despair.

His own hands tighten over his fork and knife, teeth gritting together as he tries to focus on his food, his appetite suddenly gone.

“… Vitya, it’s okay…” he hears Yuuri’s voice speak in barely more than a whisper, and then there’s a chocked off, strangled sob, followed by the metallic clatter of a fork hitting the floor. The sob breaks off into a pitiful, muffled whimper and Chris turns to see Viktor pressing his hands over his own mouth, his eyes squeezing shut against fresh tears, escaping from their corners.

Chris blinks, shocked.

Glancing across the table, he sees Yakov and Yuri staring, equally alarmed and frozen as Yuuri takes hold of Viktor’s wrist in one hand, folding his arm around Viktor’s shoulders.

Looking back, he sees Yuuri’s pressed his forehead against Viktor’s temple, continuing to speak to him in a voice too soft for Chris to make the words out. Speaking to him, Chris thinks, in Japanese. 

For a long, agonizing moment, no one is able to say anything, until Yuuri pulls back, looking to all of them.

“I’m sorry.” He starts. “Can… can you guys give us a minute? Just a few minutes?”

Chris is the first to react, standing from his seat.

“Of course. Yes. We’ll go and give you two a moment.”

He looks to Yakov and Yuri, meaning, he hopes, clear in his eyes.

The two of them seem to understand, though Yuri seems reluctant, glancing furtively at Viktor a long moment, before his jaw sets, and he pushes himself up along with Yakov, the three of them walking hastily from the room, towards the back of the apartment.

“One of the guest rooms, I think?” Chris suggests, and Yuri pushes the door to his open, leading the way inside.

Chris gives one glance back at Yuuri and Viktor, still sitting at the dining table. Viktor’s turned into Yuuri’s arms now, and even from the distance he stands at, Chris can see the line of Viktor’s shoulders trembling as he cries against Yuuri’s chest.

The sense that something more had happened since his arrival a few days ago comes crashing over him, more powerful than ever, and he has to tear his eyes away from the scene. He feels like an intruder suddenly. Seeing something he isn’t meant to. A moment too private for any of them.

He steps into Yuri’s room, closing the door softly behind him and leaning back against it, his head spinning with the awful intensity of whatever it was that had just happened.

Yuri’s already collapsed onto his bed, holding his cat to his chest. 

The boy looks disturbed, his eyes wide and glassy as he stares into space, features tight and lined with naked anxiety. 

Yakov stands beside the bed, leaning heavily onto a chest of drawers, looking no better, his face drawn and old looking in a way Chris can’t remember seeing. His own eyes look lost. Almost haunted.

“… What… what’s wrong with him?” Yuri’s voice cuts through the silence, rough and shaking. “He’s been acting fucked up since this afternoon. M-more than usual. What’s wrong with him? Yakov?”

The young skater looks up to his coach, his eyes wide and desperate for understanding.

Chris doesn’t miss the way Yakov’s large, powerful hands tighten over the lip of the dresser, his mouth pulling into an even more severe frown.

He knows, Chris thinks. Whatever it is. Whatever’s happened. Yakov knows.

“Yakov, what happened?!” Yuri snaps, voice edging toward desperation. “What the fuck’s going on!?”

“Yuri, please,” Chris pushes off the door. “Fighting isn’t going to help anybody right now.”

“B-but something happened Chris!” Yuri whirls on him. “Something happened to Viktor, and him and Katsuki fucking know! I know they do!”

He gestures wildly in Yakov’s direction.

Chris glances at the old coach, seeing his face beginning to redden in his own anger and frustration.

The last thing Viktor or Yuuri needed was the three of them blowing up at each other, he thinks dismally. 

“It’s none of your concern, you idiot boy!” Yakov snaps, straightening up from the dresser. 

“So something _did_ happen! I fucking knew it! What?! Fucking tell us old man! We have to help him!”

“What the hell do you think Katsuki is doing out there right now?! There’s nothing we can do that he can’t!”

“How the hell would you know!? Maybe… maybe there’s something… if you would just fucking tell us what happened! We can’t expect Katsuki to handle all this shit by himself! And Viktor’s our fucking family too! We have to help him! We have to help both of them!”

Yakov steps more quickly than a man his age should be able, Chris thinks, closing the space between him and Yuri in a flash, getting right up in the boy’s face. He has to look up at him now, but Yakov clearly isn’t the least bit intimidated. 

“Listen to me, you damned ignorant child! It’s Viktor’s right to tell you, not mine! Yes, something happened. Something from his past. Something which… which left him…” Yakov’s voice actually wavers a moment, strained and cracking as his words trail off.

Chris stares, and again he’s left shocked and confused.

He’s never heard Yakov sound so upset. Never seen him so upset. Angry, yes. Viktor’s rebellious refusal to listen to his coach had always been a prime source of stress for the old man, no doubt, and Chris had used to find himself endlessly amused, watching Yakov chasing after Viktor on the ice, screaming at him to do as he was told, Viktor always with that beatific and guileless smile on his face, ignoring every word and completely unflustered by his coach’s brutal scolding. 

But Yakov looked now as if he were about to cry, and oh Jesus, Chris doesn’t think he’s ready for that. 

What the hell had _happened_?

“… I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you what it is that’s happened. It’s… it’s too private. Only Viktor can make that decision. But… you’re right Yura, we… both of them need our support. We need to give them that.”

“Viktor told you? Whatever it is that’s happened?” Chris asks, relieved at the old coach’s suddenly more measured tone.

Yakov’s frown only deepens further, and he turns from Yuri towards Chris, not quite meeting his eyes.

“… No. Katsuki called me and… and told me something had happened, something during one of Vitya’s therapy sessions. He told me Vitya wasn’t okay, and so I came here and… I was given enough details by Katsuki to glean it on my own. What it was.”

“How are we supposed to help if we don’t know what the fuck we’re dealing with!?” Yuri snaps, putting his cat down when she begins to squirm in his arms, frightened by his yelling.

“I don’t know. Even… even if I told you, I don’t know how we could help.” Yakov answers, and he sounds so completely defeated, in a way Chris has never heard. He sounds devastated. 

It makes Chris uncomfortable, a slow dread blooming in his chest. An ugly suspicion which he doesn’t want to consider. Not even for a moment.

He shouldn’t make assumptions, he knows.

But he knows _Viktor_. He knows his friend, probably better than he knows anyone.

And he has this feeling now which he can’t shake. No reason readily apparent. Just a feeling.

When Chris had first met Viktor, he’d been 14, Viktor 16, and Chris had been struck, after getting over his initial fanboy enthrallment at meeting his hero, with how naïve Viktor had been. 

It was immediately obvious that Viktor was gay, even though he wouldn’t yet publicly come out of the closet for another year. 

Chris had met other Russian skaters who were gay. Practically everyone was, in the world of figure skating. At least on the men’s side. There were exceptions, of course. But it was a sport which attracted gay boys and men. 

The other Russians he’d met were by far the best at hiding it though. It was difficult to tell with most of them, only very subtle hints here and there to give them away. Chris knew that kind of practiced deception of their sexual orientation had been drilled into them from a young age, given where they were from and where they lived.

Russia was less than accepting of homosexuality, to say the very least. It was a bizarre irony, given the popularity and prestige of figure skating as a sport here, mainstream in a way it really wasn’t anywhere else, except maybe Japan.

It was disgusting, really. The world’s worst kept secret. The Russian officials knew most of their athletes were gay. But they wouldn’t ever allow them to be out. In fact, would officially condemn them if they so much as hinted at the true nature of their sexuality.

That’s what they’d done to Viktor, when Viktor had, in an interview, barely a year after first meeting Chris, slipped up and mentioned how attractive he thought Stephane Lambiel was. Chris remembers the interview. Remembers watching it on the internet. Chris remembers the reporters exact words when she’d asked “Is there anyone special in your life?”, and Viktor had smiled his sweet, artless smile, and shaken his head, and said, and Chris remembers his exact words too, “_No, but I think Stephane Lambiel is so cute. I wish he’d call me!_”.

The reaction from the Russian media had been outsized and absurd.

Everyone knew Viktor was gay, well before that interview, because, unlike the other Russian skaters Chris had met, he was terrible at hiding it. Just like Viktor was terrible at hiding everything. Because he was the least deceptive person Chris had ever known. He was just himself. He always had been.

The Russian media had raked Viktor over the coals for it though. There’d been seemingly endless coverage, both in print and television, salacious and cruel-hearted stories trying to dig up any dirt they could find, trying to uncover what they deemed scandalous, perverse affairs they just _knew_ Viktor must have had with other men. Twisting every encounter and friendship he had with anyone of the same sex as him as some illicit and sacrilegious union. The pundit’s had been especially cruel, with their snide sarcasm and naked, vicious disgust while talking about Viktor and how he was going to “corrupt the Nation’s youths”, talking about him like he was some sort of perversion of nature, saying he was a disgrace to the motherland. 

Viktor had called Chris many times during that awful fucking year, in tears over yet another slanderous piece of dehumanizing trash he’d seen about himself on TV, or in a magazine, or wherever. Sobbing into the receiver, desperate and lost and scared. 

Viktor has basically been forced to come out in public after that. Had had to make a statement, which he released to the press, defending himself and his sexual orientation, refuting the ridiculous claim that he was somehow a danger to the public.

Eventually, of course, the Russian Skating Federation had simply chosen to ignore the entire thing. Viktor might have been an openly gay man living in Russia, but you couldn’t really put a price on the glory of so many gold medals and world records. Not when it came to proving to the world the superiority of their people. 

It made Chris sick to think about.

One of the worst parts about all of it was that it was all so fucking untrue.

Viktor, as far as Chris had known back then, hadn’t ever had sex until he was in his early 20s. And he knew for certain he’d never had an actual boyfriend before then. He’d never even dated. 

He was a 17 year old kid who knew absolutely nothing about romance or how to talk to another boy. 

Chris, by contrast, had already had a slew of boyfriends, had already had several sexual encounters, and was more damn arrogant and cocksure than any 15 year old had any right to be.

Viktor had been his usual ebullient and effusive self around boys, fighting through an admitted shyness he felt still, lingering, he said, from when he’d been younger. Chris would drag him along on more than a few outings whenever they happened to be in the same city together, trying to introduce him to cute guys. That part had always been easy. Viktor was immensely good looking. Striking, really. Guys were interested in him without him really even needing to make an effort. But Viktor, after being introduced, would do what he always did. Immediately he would hug them, his bubbling and at times overwhelming enthusiasm infusing every word and gesture, until, inevitably it seemed, whoever he was trying to talk to would lose interest and walk away.

It had always been awful to see. Awful especially for how openly crestfallen Viktor would be at the rejection.

Viktor used to ask Chris if there was something wrong with him.

Chris never knew how to respond to that. He always felt so useless, offering stupid, placating reassurances, telling Viktor no, there was _nothing_ wrong with him, and all those guys were just clueless idiots who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Useless, because it just kept happening again and again, and the shitty fucking truth was that Viktor was different. He was special. And all those blowhard douchebags weren’t good enough for him anyway. But Chris didn’t know how to tell that to Viktor without making him feel worse. Didn’t know how to tell him he just needed to find someone equally special to understand him. Didn’t want to promise him that when he didn’t know if it was true.

One time, when they’d been out at a dance club in Monaco, there’d been a guy there who Viktor had been talking with all night. The guy hadn’t ditched Viktor after an hour or so, like most guys. He’d stuck around, and Chris, for once, had allowed himself to feel hopeful for his friend. 

That had been a mistake, and Chris hadn’t forgiven himself for a long time afterward, for failing to see what that piece of trash had really been up to.

He’d been dancing with some guy of his own, out on the floor, working up a hell of a sweat. The music had been ear splitting, pulsating and reverberating around inside his skull. He’d been a little drunk. And so he hadn’t noticed at first. Hadn’t paid any mind to the sudden, loud commotion happening over near the bar. Hadn’t even looked that way until the guy he’d been dancing with had grabbed him by the hand and shouted in his ear…

“_Hey, isn’t that guy your friend?! The one you came in with?!_”

And when Chris had looked up and followed the line of where the guy was pointing, he’d seen Viktor pressed up with his back against the bar, the guy who’d been talking to him all night pushed up against him, draping over him. He’d had one hand gripped tight around Viktor’s wrist, pinning it to the bar top. His other hand had been twisting in Viktor’s long hair, and even from as far away as he’d been, Chris had been able to see him tearing at the strands, tearing at Viktor’s scalp. Had seen the way Viktor’s face had turned aside, his features screwed up in naked pain as the guy had leaned over him, trying forcefully to kiss him.

There’s been a group of other men standing around, hooting and hollering, egging the guy on, obviously his friends, and Chris hadn’t needed anything more to see the full picture then. The game they’d all been running.

He can’t remember ever feeling before the kind of fury he’d felt in that moment. It was like the world around him had gone red, and he’d thought, in that instant, if he could have gotten away with killing the bastards, he might have.

As it was, he’d settled for marching towards the group.

“_Come on you little slut, you know you want it!_” Was all Chris had heard come from the man’s mouth before he’d grabbed the son of a bitch by his hair and tore him away.

“_Get your filthy fucking hands off him!_” He’d screamed in the man’s face.

The man had blinked stupidly at him, he remembers, this shocked look on his disgustingly smug face, before it had twisted into a sneer.

“_Who the fuck are you?_” He’d snapped.

Chris had stepped right up to the man then, right in his face. He’d hit his growth spurt not more than a few months back, nearing the six feet he’d eventually grow into, and he’d used it to his full advantage in that moment, looming over the bastard.

“_I’m his friend, you piece of shit. And if you try coming near him again, I’ll beat you so black and blue, people will think you’ve been run the fuck over. That goes for all of you! You and your fucking buddies!_”

He’d seen it then. The flash of fear in the man’s eyes. He’d tried covering it quickly with another, snide look, but Chris had seen.

“_Fuckin’ faggots. Your fruit loop boyfriend there was askin’ for it all night!_”

Chris hadn’t dignified that filth with a response, instead turning from the worthless creep and his friends, back towards Viktor.

Viktor had been standing there, still pressed back against the bar. 

Chris doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget his friend’s stricken expression. The absolutely haunted, terrified look in Viktor’s eyes. He’d been cowering, hands pressed against his chest in a pitiful attempt to defend himself.

Chris had simply reached out, taking hold of one of those hands.

“_Come on Viktor. Come on, it’s alright now._” He’d said, and Viktor had looked at him, and for a moment, it was like he didn’t even know who Chris was, before recognition bled into his eyes, and he’d fallen forward, latching onto him in a desperate, frantic embrace. 

Chris had led Viktor out of the club without any further incident, thank God, and back to their hotel room. He’d refused to let Viktor return to his room alone, insisting on staying with him for the night, and Viktor hadn’t protested.

Later on, when he’d asked Viktor what had happened, Viktor had trembled as he’d told him the man had, out of nowhere, suddenly started groping him, trying to palm at his crotch, and when Viktor had told him to stop, had tried pushing the man’s hand away, that’s when the man had grabbed him and pinned him against the bar. 

Viktor had turned eighteen just a few months before, and still, Chris had never seen him do more than kiss a few guys. Even then, usually nothing more salacious than a little tongue. Usually, Viktor wouldn’t even move past that, keeping to closed mouth smooches and pecks. It was completely at odds with the picture the press liked to paint of him. He was almost shockingly conservative and inexperienced.

Only… the look in Viktor’s eyes that night. The absolute fear…

Chris had been overcome by an awful feeling, he remembers, seeing that look on Viktor’s face. Seeing the way he’d reacted to that man’s unwanted advances. 

Chris himself had had to shove more than his fair share of idiots off of him who’d gotten a little too handsy before he was ready. It was always deeply unpleasant, but it never really bothered Chris all that much. Certainly not to the point of causing actual fear in him.

But Viktor had been terrified. Like he’d been through something truly awful, and it was happening all over again…

That same, awful feeling grips him now. His mind scurrying away with the same denial from what his heart is telling him this is.

Something from Viktor’s past…

“Yuri…” he hears himself call, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Yakov’s right. Don’t try to make him tell us. If… if you need to know, you ask Viktor. You talk to Viktor…”

Yuri looks for a moment like he’s going to argue, his mouth falling open, eyes vibrating in anger. Only suddenly the tension drains from his frame, his shoulders slumping. He shakes his head, his eyes at once over-bright, wet.

“… How do I ask him? It’s… he’s already so f-fucked up… I don’t want to make it worse, but I don’t… I can’t just… just let him alone like this. I don’t know how to help him!”

“… We go out there and we offer our friendship.” Chris says. “We just… we just let him and Yuuri both know we’re here. And if either of them needs to talk to any of us, we let them know that they can, and he… Viktor doesn’t… he doesn’t need to be afraid to. He doesn’t need to be afraid of us. That’s what we can do to help him and Yuuri both.”

Yuri stares ahead, reaching out absently and burying his hand in his cat’s fur.

“Can… can we go out there now and try?”

Chris smiles weakly, nodding.

“We can try.”


	31. Chapter 31

Embarrassment chokes Viktor as he presses his face to Yuuri’s shoulder, shame threatening to destroy him.

He was such a fool. A selfish, idiotic fool.

He’d ruined dinner for everyone, all because… because he couldn’t be bothered to drag himself out of bed, not even to be a good host to their guests. Because he couldn’t even feed himself. Because he couldn’t go five minutes without succumbing to his own, pathetic emotions and physical limitations now. Because… because… because…

“Viktor… Vitya, hey, hey, come on…”

“I’m sorry Yuuri. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“Viktor, no… listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong. Alright? Why are you apologizing?”

“B-because… because I messed everything up. Everyone… everyone came over to have a nice dinner and I… I messed it all up. C-Chris came all the way from Canada and I can’t even… can’t even show my gratitude because I’m such a selfish idiot. I’m…”

“Viktor, stop. Just stop talking about yourself like this.” Yuuri cuts him off. He takes Viktor’s hands in his, his thumbs running smoothly over Viktor’s knuckles. “Please. I can’t stand to hear you talk like this about yourself.”

That dries Viktor’s voice up in his throat. Somehow, he only feels more ashamed.

He was stressing Yuuri out. He’d been stressing him out for the past five months. Almost… almost half a year. Ever since this whole nightmare began. 

If Yuuri was having anxiety attacks, Viktor can’t remember having noticed, but he… he must have been. Yuuri’s anxiety was clinical and… and it was something Viktor had gradually had to learn to how to help with over the course of the last three years. He’d had to learn how to be more patient, how better to listen. But… oh… oh God, he’d been so consumed by his own stupid, self-obsessed problems these last several months, he hadn’t even thought about… hadn’t thought about how strange it was, that he hadn’t seen Yuuri have an attack, when before they had been a fairly regular occurrence.

Why was he realizing this only now? What the hell was wrong with him?

He was a terrible boyfriend. Jesus, he was. There was no way Yuuri was going to want to still marry him. To… to even be with him still. And now, after telling him about… about Vladimir…

Viktor was damaged. He was stupid and selfish and naïve, and he was ruining everything. Ruining Yuuri’s career. Ruining his life. 

“Viktor look at me.”

Yuuri’s hands are on his face. He’s shaking his head, that set, determined look in his eyes which he had just before a skate.

“No.” He says. “Don’t. Viktor, don’t do that. I know you’re beating yourself up for something. Don’t, please.”

“I’m c-causing you so much stress though Yuuri. I haven’t… h-haven’t even asked how you’re doing, how… how your anxiety it. I’ve been so s-selfish.”

“Viktor, oh Viktor, no… you haven’t been selfish. Look at what you’ve been through… oh God, please don’t do this to yourself. Look at me, okay?”

Viktor’s eyes burn, filling with fresh tears. He can feel them slip, warm and useless down his face. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get a full breath. He wants to turn away, shame choking him. He doesn’t. Yuuri deserves at least this from him. He deserves for Viktor to not be a coward, just this once.

“Yes, I… I’ve been stressed. Of course I have.” Yuuri starts, voice soft. Kind, like it always is. “But it isn’t because of anything you’ve done. Alright? Vitya, this… _all of this_ is because of what other people have done. Because of other people’s ugliness and intolerance and cruelty. Not because of you. God, Vitya, do you… do you even know where I was before you came into my life? I was so depressed. I was overweight, I was getting ready to quit skating for good. I thought I’d reached my peak and I couldn’t get any better. I thought there wasn’t any point to any of it anymore. And then you show up. This absolute god of figure skating, telling me he’s gonna be my coach and that I’m going to win the Grand Prix.” Yuuri laughs, even as tears fill his own eyes. “Viktor, no one’s ever believed in me the way you believed in me. Do you know that? No one’s ever made me believe in _myself_ the way you did. I never would have gotten where I have if you hadn’t taken that chance on me. You didn’t even know me. Not really. But you believed in me enough to drop your entire life and come help me. I’ve never seen anything so courageous in my life. You… you have so much _faith_ in people Viktor, even when they haven’t given you any damned reason to. That’s so fucking amazing. And because you had faith in me, you’ve made my life so much better than it ever was before. Viktor, I’m _happy_ with you. I don’t think I was ever truly happy in my life before I met you. _You_ make me happy.”

“… Yo-you make me happy too.” Viktor says, before bursting into sobs.

Yuuri’s arms come around him, pulling him close, and Viktor holds him back. He buries his face against Yuuri’s shoulder, and he’s never been so grateful in his life. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky, to have found this man. He doesn’t even understand why Yuuri loves him as much as he does. But he knows he does, and that’s… that’s all that matters. 

“Do you mind if we join in?” Chris’ voice floats over, and Viktor pulls back, lifting his face to find Chris, Yura and Yakov standing a little ways back. They look unsure, but Chris smiles softly, and Viktor feels something loosen in his chest, smiling back. 

“Please…” he calls back. “I’m… I want you here. All of you. Please come back to the table. I’m… I’m sorry I… I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Nonsense, mon cher!” Chris is instantly confident again, striding forward, Yura and Yakov following. “You just needed a moment alone with your man, that’s all!”

Viktor can’t help the huffed laugh which slips from his throat.

Leave it to Chris to take an embarrassing emotional display in such stride. He was the best friend any person could ask for, and for him… for all of them, Viktor felt like the luckiest person in the world.

//

It’s late, before everyone decides to head off to bed.

Viktor decides to stay up with Chris, because Chris, he thinks, probably already knows, and he deserves to be told.

He knows Yakov does. Yuuri told him, when they’d had a moment alone earlier, while Chris, Yura and Yakov had taken care of the dishes. Viktor hadn’t been surprised, given the way he kept catching Yakov stealing glances at him over dinner, his face etched in open pain.

Viktor wasn’t upset about Yakov knowing. He’d never hidden anything from his coach except this. And, in truth, Viktor felt like it was a weight off his shoulders, that the man he considered to be more of a father to him than his real father had ever been, finally knew. He was going to have to sit down with Yakov soon and talk with him about it, just the two of them.

And Yura, too. But… he didn’t want to dump this on Yura’s plate now. Not yet. The boy was already dealing with so much stress. He would talk to him, and soon. Just… not yet.

Chris though… Chris deserved to hear it from him, even if he already knew. How he’d worked it out, Viktor isn’t sure. But he knows… he knows Chris wouldn’t ever judge him for something like this. Wouldn’t judge him for anything, really.

Chris had always been immediately accepting of Viktor, even with all his weirdness.

And Viktor knew he was weird. He knew, to a lot of people, he could be off putting, annoying, embarrassing. He never meant to be. It was just… the way he was, and no matter how much he tried to change or control it, he never could. 

Chris had never seemed to care, though. He’d always been so kind. 

And even though he was older than Chris by two years, Viktor often thought of Chris as being like an older brother to him. He had always been so much more worldly. Had always understood so well how to navigate social situations. How to be engaging, and charming. He’d acted as Viktor’s support so many times when they’d used to go out to clubs together, because Viktor was such a hopeless mess when it came to knowing how to talk to people.

It was ironic. People saw Viktor’s skating, and they thought he had to be all those things Chris was. A charming, sophisticated playboy. A man who could woo anyone he set his sights on.

But Viktor knew enough about himself to know he wasn’t anything like that. 

He was a dork. He was goofy, emotional, clingy. He was unknowledgeable about most things that were current or trending in popular culture. He liked things that were niche, or often considered out of the mainstream. He’d never been a popular kid. Not when he’d been a boy. Not now. 

Chris… Chris was cool. He was _so_ cool.

It wasn’t just that he was hip, even though he was, and always had been. Chris had always just been so sure of himself. So incredibly secure in everything, including his sexuality, which Viktor, up to that point, had been wretchedly insecure about. Chris just came out and said he was gay, at 14, like it was no big deal. He said it to everyone and anyone who was interested. Viktor remembers, when he’d been 14, the thought of telling anyone he was gay was the most terrifying idea in the world. At the time, Yakov and Lilia had been the only two people he’d confided the truth in. His actual parents didn’t count, because he hadn’t meant for them to ever find out. 

Chris had asked Viktor if he was gay one day, not long after they’d become friends, and Viktor had almost choked on his own spit. Chris had just grinned at him and said, Viktor won’t ever forget his words, “_I am. I think you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen too. It’ll be a shame if you aren’t gay. Please Viktor, don’t break my heart._”. 

Chris knew Viktor was gay, even before asking. He told him so later. He’d only asked, and said what he did after, because he’d been able to tell Viktor was struggling with the truth, and he wanted him to know it was okay. That he had nothing to be ashamed of. 

It was that single act of kindness from Chris which had really helped Viktor to finally start coming out of his shell and open up more. To be more accepting of who he was. 

When Viktor had first met Chris, it had been the first time in Viktor’s life that he’d found an actual friend close to his own age, and his first openly gay friend. He’d never had anyone like that in his life before. None of the kids he went to school with had ever shown any interest in hanging out with him. In truth, the opposite. Viktor’s memory is filled with humiliating moments of rejection and bullying from his school days. Moments which still left his face hot with embarrassment and shame when he allowed himself to think of them for more than a moment. 

But then there’d been Chris. Viktor remembers he’d been so excited to meet a fellow competitive skater close to his age, who was moving up in the Junior ranks, just as Viktor was getting ready to make his Senior debut. Chris had been a fan of his, which had been clear the first couple times they’d really talked. But Chris hadn’t ever treated him like some unattainable god, like so many of Viktor’s fans tended to, or with the open contempt and resentment of so many of his fellow skaters. He’d always just been… real with Viktor. Honest and open and casual. Admiring, but not worshipful. And kind.

Viktor remembers he’d made such an ass of himself, as he usually did, deciding after only a couple of hours of really talking to Chris that the two of them were gonna be best friends, and in his usual, thoughtless enthusiasm, he’d thrown his arms around the younger boy and given him a great, big hug, declaring just that.

Viktor had been sure, after realizing what he’d done, that Chris was going to think he was a freak, and probably never speak to him again. He can still recall the feeling of mortified dread that had formed in the pit of his stomach at the thought, angry at himself for destroying, yet again, a friendship before it could even really form.

But Chris hadn’t thought he was a freak. 

He remembers so clearly the way Chris had only laughed and smiled up at him with genuine affection, before declaring he would like nothing better than for them to be best friends. 

He’d been taken aback by Viktor’s physical display, but he hadn’t been put off by it. He hadn’t been put off by _Viktor_.

And Viktor had known, then and there, that he could trust Chris. That he could trust him with anything. And he always had.

Just like he was about to trust Chris now.

It didn’t make this easy though.

His hands are tingling with nerves, his breath feeling too shallow in his lungs as he sits alongside his best friend in the living room. The lights are all out, save for a single floor lamp sitting over the back of the couch they’re on. Chris is holding his hand, a reassuring anchor. 

“It’s alright, Viktor.” He tells him softly, and Viktor nods, trying to work up the courage to just _say it_. His mouth feels dry, his tongue too heavy to properly work.

He doesn’t know why he’s so scared, when he’s so certain Chris already knows anyway. 

Chris doesn’t push him, and for that, Viktor is grateful too. 

“… When… when I was 16…” he finally starts. His own voice sounds hollow in his ears. Wrung out and raw. Tired. He sounds so much older than the thirty years he actually is. He pauses, swallows past the lump in his throat. _Just say it, you coward_, he thinks dismally. Chris’ hands tighten over his. 

“When I was 16, I was raped.”

There. He said it. 

He said it to Chris. 

Whatever happened now was out of his control.

He sees movement out of his periphery, and he turns.

Chris is nodding. His face is twisted in naked despair, his eyes thick with tears.

“I know, mon cher. Oh, I know.” 

And at once he has his arms around Viktor, pulling him into a crushing embrace. Chris presses his face to Viktor’s shoulder, and sobs brokenly.

Viktor sits stunned, unsure what to do.

“I’m sorry. Oh Viktor, I’m so sorry.”

Viktor was so sick of crying. He was so sick of losing control of himself like this. But it’s happening again. He feels his own face crumple, and he’s clinging back to his best friend, and he’s crying too.

“I… I’m such an idiot. I should have told you before, but I… I didn’t even realize wh-what had happened to me. I thought… I thought it was consensual, but it….” 

“No, oh, darling, no… I understand. I understand. Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Viktor squeezes Chris back tighter, hiding his face against his neck.

“It… it was another skater. It was… my first… I mean, I’d never…”

“Who? Who was it?” Chris’ voice is raw and angry in a way Viktor has rarely heard.

He hesitates. He knows how protective Chris can get. He doesn’t… doesn’t want Chris actually doing anything. Not when it was so long ago, and there was nothing any of them could do anymore anyway. Not legally.

“Viktor…”

“V-Vladimir Federov.” He blurts.

He feels Chris stiffen in his arms.

“That son of a bitch…”

“I wasn’t… I… I said yes.” Viktor starts, stammering over his words. “He asked me if I wanted to have sex with him and I said yes. But then it got… I didn’t want what was happening, but I didn’t… I couldn’t tell him to stop. He started to hurt me and I couldn’t… couldn’t make him stop, and then after I just thought… I didn’t know what had happened, b-because I said yes. I thought that meant… it was consensual. I didn’t understand until m-my therapist explained to me…”

“Your therapist is right.” Chris says, that same, raw edge to his voice. “It wasn’t consensual. If you wanted it to stop but didn’t feel like you could say so, it wasn’t consensual. Viktor, oh God, I’m so sorry. On top of everything else…”

Viktor shakes his head, lifting a hand to wipe at his eyes.

“I’m… I’m alright. I mean, I’ll be alright. I just… I need time to… work it out, I guess…”

“I know. Viktor, you’re stronger than you’ve ever realized about yourself. And we’re, all of us, here for you. No matter what. We love you. All of us love you so much.”

“I know.” Viktor says, his voice half choked on a sob. “I love all of you too. I love you Chris.”

He’s crying again. He can’t help it.

“Ohh, mon cher… come here. Come here.”

Viktor lets Chris wrap him in his arms, pulling him against his chest. 

After a while, his tears dry up, and he just lays there in his friend’s arms, drifting. He closes his eyes, until, sometime, the world just fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the longer wait on this one you guys. I hope you enjoyed it anyway! If you have a chance, leave a comment!


	32. Chapter 32

When Viktor won his first Olympic gold medal, he had just turned 17 years old. Not even two months before.

Yakov, to his own embarrassment and secret shame, hadn’t believed his star pupil would do it.

Just six months prior, Viktor had had the worst skate of his professional career, dropping from first after the short program to sixth in the overall standings. Yakov had foolishly put it down to growing nerves. An uncertainty in the boy about moving up to the Senior division and the pressure of expectation. Viktor had dominated the Junior division for several years, after all, and it was the general consensus that he would it least place in the top four at the upcoming Winter games. But after that horrendous free skate, during what was one of the last of his Junior competitions, expectations had been lowered, Yakov’s included.

Yakov now knew the real reason Viktor had performed so badly that day. The truth of it was unbearable. To know how badly he had failed the boy, that he had allowed something like that to happen to Vitya. 

He remembers yelling at Viktor just a week before the start of the men’s figure skating competition at the Olympics. Viktor had been training like a mad man leading up to it. It was to be his Senior Debut. The most high pressure stage imaginable. The worst possible competition to enter the top division, Yakov thought.

He’d tried to curb his student’s obsessive work rate, telling him again and again that he was going to injure himself, and then he wouldn’t be going to the Olympics at all. Viktor, as was typical of the boy, had ignored him, and had kept repeating over and over that he was going to win gold, that he was going to make Russia and Yakov proud. 

That day, a week before the competition, Yakov had snapped, and said some ugly things which, to this day, he regretted.

He’d told Viktor he wasn’t going to win. Had stated it like it was a fact. 

“_You’re going up against the best in the world, Vitya. Lambiel is coming off a world title, and Plushenko is still Russia’s best, no matter what you think, never mind he’s the defending Olympic champion. You really believe he’s going to let some snot nosed brat come up from a rival club and take that title away from him? At the age of 17? You know better than to be so arrogant._”

Yakov won’t ever be able to forget the look of absolute, heartbroken betrayal in Vitya’s eyes that day. The way they’d filled with tears. His young voice filled with so much hurt as he’d yelled back that he was going to prove everyone wrong, before storming off the ice.

And he did. By God, he did.

Yakov remembers standing at the boards as Viktor had skated out to center ice on the last day of competition. He’d been sitting, to everyone’s astonishment, in first place after the short, but just barely. Less than half a point above Plushenko, and a couple points above Lambiel. 

He remembers just moments before, as Viktor had stood with him at the boards, and Yakov had taken his hands… 

“_Vitya… listen to me. I was wrong. You can win this. I know you can. Yes?”_

_Viktor looks back at him. There’s a vague tremor Yakov can feel, working through the boy’s limbs. He’s nervous, but he has that determined look in his eye that he always has before competitions, and Yakov knows he’ll be alright. It was just Plushenko after this. Lambiel was currently sitting in first. But Viktor could beat him, Yakov was sure. He could beat Plushenko too, as long as he had a clean skate. They’d constructed it so that Viktor’s base score was equal to that of the defending Olympic Champion. Yakov had been opposed to it at first. Viktor was so young, his body still developing. He hadn’t thought Viktor could handle the physical demands of such a rigorous routine. But Viktor had insisted, and as usual, had won the argument._

_His short program had been nearly flawless. Just some very minor deductions from the judges here and there. Plushenko’s had been nearly as perfect, but he didn’t have the beauty in his skating that Viktor did. The expression. The judges had rewarded Viktor for the emotional weight of his performance. Rightfully so._

_But this… this was where Yakov worried. Viktor was perfect technically, but his stamina was still an issue. And with three quads planned… Yakov wasn’t certain Viktor could hold out. _

_Viktor nods at him, his mouth set in a tight line._

_“If you don’t feel like you have the strength for the quad sal at the end, change it to a triple. You have enough base points that if you go clean, you can still win with a triple.”_

_“I’ll have the strength.” Viktor tells him, and Yakov only nods at him._

_He’s through doubting his boy._

_He gives Viktor’s hands one last squeeze, and then he can only watch as his star pupil skates out to center ice. _

_The announcer introduces him, and the auditorium erupts into cheers and applause. _

_The nerves Viktor had displayed just moments before had seemingly vanished, and he smiles and waves at the crowds, a picture of confidence. _

_Yakov’s hands curl over the boards, squeezing white knuckled. _

_The audience begins to quiet, a deep hush falling over the stadium, and Viktor moves into his starting position, the sound of his blades against the ice the only sound to be heard. Yakov can see his chest rise and fall in an even, deep rhythm, and finds himself matching his student breath for breath._

_And then Viktor’s free program music starts to stream from the surrounding speakers, and he begins._

_He’s incredible. _

_His first quad is a loop. He lands it with ease, perfect form, and Yakov knows in that moment he’s going to win. Viktor is going to win._

_The triple toe, double toe combination goes just as smoothly, and Viktor is off into his step sequence._

_Yakov doesn’t express himself in grand, emotional gestures. He finds little enough occasion to smile, let alone laugh. He knows about himself that he can come across as cold, even unfriendly, though it’s never really his intent. Only a few people know him well enough to understand that’s just his way. That he doesn’t mean anything by it._

_Viktor is one of those few people._

_Viktor understands that Yakov’s lack of outward enthusiasm isn’t a sign of his disappointment. That his reserved reactions to his student’s success aren’t criticisms. _

_Right now, Yakov is having a difficult time not jumping in joy and shouting his excitement. Viktor is going to win._

_There’s pride unlike any Yakov has ever known, swelling in his heart as he watches Vitya come out of his final spin, and into his final pose. _

_The stadium erupts into deafening applause and Viktor collapses to his knees, his back heaving with his deep breaths. He sits there as roses rain down from the audience, covering the ice in a blanket of blue._

_Finally he pushes himself back to his feet, waving and blowing kisses to the audience as he makes his way back to the boards, gathering up a few of the flowers as he approaches._

_Yakov can see, as he draws nearer, that he’s crying, and he opens his arms just as Viktor reaches the exit, letting the boy fall into him, his thin arms coming up and wrapping round Yakov almost painfully tight. _

_Viktor sobs into his shoulder, and Yakov cradles the back of his head, his arm coming tight around his boy’s back._

_“You did good Vitya.” He tells him, needing to shout above the noise of the crowd. “You did good._”

In the end, Viktor had won by almost three points, even with Plushekno’s near technically flawless skate. The boy had shattered the then current world record for a long program, again, beating Plushenko. The first of many world records for Viktor. Records the boy was still obliterating less than half a year ago, before all of this had happened.

Plushenko had redeemed himself somewhat by winning World’s that year, but Viktor’s long skate record had stood. He’d been exhausted after the whirlwind of the Olympics, physically and mentally. Yakov had even tried talking Viktor out of competing at worlds at all that year, but the boy had wanted to. Even still, he’d only lost by less than half a point, due to a slight under rotation on the final quad of his short program, and getting deducted by fractions on his layback. 

It had been clear to everyone then who the future of figure skating was, and Viktor would go on to become the single most dominant figure skater in history, male or female. Accumulating more gold medals and more world records than any athlete their sport had ever seen. Records, Yakov thinks, which would stand for a long, long time to come, if ever they would be broken. Three Olympic Golds, six World titles, six Grand Prix titles, over twenty times he’d broken his own world records. The first male skater in history to sweep every National and international title in both the Junior and Senior Divisions. Nobody had ever been as good as Viktor. Nobody, Yakov thinks, would ever be as good again.

It was hard to believe the same young man sitting in front of him now, slumped in a wheelchair, his hair falling limp around his shoulders, face gaunt and lined with exhaustion, his frame reduced to little more than skin and bones, was the same, astonishing athlete that Viktor had, for most of his life, been. 

Yakov knew from Viktor’s now routine physicals at the doctors that the boy had lost twenty-five pounds in just the last three months. It was horrible, watching his boy waste away like this. It was only made worse by Yakov’s inability to do anything about it. To help. He didn’t know how. And with the arraignment date for the men who had attacked Viktor quickly closing in on them, and the commencement of the trial to follow, Yakov worried more than ever for Vitya’s mental state.

The detectives and prosecution team in charge of the case had been calling Yakov these late, two weeks, wanting to set up an appointment with Viktor, to start trying to prep him for the witness stand. They said Viktor’s participation in the trial was still a good two months or so off, but still… It was the last thing Viktor needed to deal with now. He’d been warned that the defense for the men would do everything they could to make Viktor seem like an unreliable witness. That meant they would try to assassinate Viktor’s character. That meant, here in Russia, dragging Viktor’s private life out into the open.

There was already a large percentage of the population in St. Petersburg which were vehemently opposed to the “gay lifestyle”, as they often phrased it. And Viktor was an extremely well known celebrity in the country. Figure skating, in Russia, was tantamount to say, basketball, or baseball in America. Or that other weird sport they called football. There was no other athlete in all the country as famous as Viktor.

Yakov knew, when the time came for Viktor to take the stand and testify, there would be a media circus surrounding the whole affair. The prosecutors assured him they were doing all they could to make sure the trial was private, that no cameras would be allowed inside the courtroom. But Yakov also knew that would do little to stop the bloodsuckers from going after his boy.

Already, every day, there was a glut of reporters and camera crews parked outside of the rink, hoping to catch Viktor on his way into the building to harass him with often cruel, invasive questions. On days Viktor didn’t show, they settled for harassing Yakov, or Yura, or Katsuki if he came without Viktor. 

It was maddening, and terrifying, and Yakov could only imagine how much worse it would get once the trial started.

Once those degenerate defense lawyers got their hands on Viktor, Yakov knew they would stop at nothing to turn the public against him. They would doubtless try to paint him as some sort of sexual deviant. Some sort of pervert who couldn’t be trusted or relied upon to tell the truth. It was sickening to think of even. Viktor was the most open and honest person Yakov had ever known. Sincere to a fault, and heartbreakingly trusting. He would never purposefully lie about anyone or anything. But these bastards didn’t care. Whatever it took to get their clients off, that was what they were going to do. Never mind that Viktor was the one who’d had his entire life destroyed by their hatred and bigotry and violence.

All this was what Yakov had asked Katsuki to bring Viktor up to his office for. To discuss it. With both of them.

Katsuki sits in the chair next to Viktor, holding Viktor’s hand, and Yakov once again found himself grateful for the young man who had come to mean so much to his boy.

“First, thank you both for interrupting your ice time. Yuuri, I know you’ve been getting back into some more serious training, and Vitya, I know you don’t like to be pulled off your coaching duties, but… I just got off the phone with the assistant prosecutor, and I’ve been told they want Vitya to come in for some pre-trial run throughs of what they think your testimony and cross-examination will look like.”

Vitya immediately tenses, his expression going distraught, what little color there was in his cheeks instantly draining. His hand squeezes visibly tighter over Yuuri’s, Yuuri squeezing back, his own face stricken with concern.

“I thought the trial wasn’t going to start for another few months.” Yuuri starts.

“It isn’t. But they want to be prepared.” Yakov tells him. “It’s… the defense team for the bastards that did this are going to go after Vitya with any dirty trick they can. Try to paint him in a bad light.”

Yuuri’s expression is indignant, quickly morphing into rage. It’s a look Yakov can’t remember ever having seen on the boy before.

“What the hell!?” He spits. “Paint Viktor in a bad light?! They’re the fucking bastards that did this! Viktor didn’t do anything!”

Viktor flinches at Yuuri’s raised voice, his eyes over bright as they cut away. He lifts a hand, his trembling fingers clutching at the strands of his hair.

“I know.” Yakov says, trying to keep his voice calm. “It isn’t right. But that’s how this process works. There’s no chance of whatever strategy they have planned actually working, since we’ve got the truth on our side, and plenty of other witnesses to testify that these are the men who did it. But still, they want Vitya to be ready, because it’s… it could get ugly.”

Impossibly, Yuuri’s face grows darker still, his mouth twisting in anger.

“I don’t see why they need Viktor to testify at all then, if they’ve got so much evidence already. Why do they need to put him through all that? He’s already dealing with too much.”

Yakov opens his mouth to answer, but, surprisingly, Viktor speaks first.

“They need me because I’m the only one who actually knows what happened.” He says. His voice is soft, and slightly uneven, but he doesn’t stammer over his words, sure in what he’s saying. “I’m the only one who can say.”

Yuuri sighs, shaking his head.

“I know. I… I know that. It’s just… I wish you didn’t have to do this. I wish none of this had ever happened.”

Viktor looks down at his lap, his mouth pulling down at the corners.

“… Me either.” He says, voice hardly a whisper. “But… as long as I have all of you there,”

He looks up, at Yuuri, then at Yakov. 

“I know I’ll be alright. I just… just have to get through it once, and then it will be over, and we can… we can get on with our lives. Yes?”

Something powerful blooms in Yakov’s chest at Vitya’s words. Something like pride, he thinks.

Even as he looked beaten down, even as he looked like a shadow of the Vitya he’d once known, his boy never lost that spirit which made him who he was. Which had made him such a great champion to begin with. Yakov would do well to remember that, he thinks. Even if Vitya had been down in the dumps these past few months, he’d been making steady progress, slowly pulling himself out of the depression he’d fallen into. 

Christophe’s presence had helped, Yakov thinks. Viktor’s friend had been incredibly supportive, and Yakov still planned on taking the young man aside to thank him privately at some point.

“… Yeah.” Yuuri says after a long moment, voice soft. “Yes.” He gives Viktor’s hand another squeeze. “We’ll all be there.”

Viktor smiles at him, something of the beaming, bright expression he used to always wear.

“All of us.” Yakov affirms, nodding. 

“Alright, then… when do they want me to come in?” Viktor asks, his voice a little less sure than a moment ago.

“As soon as possible. But it’s your choice Vitya. Whatever’s comfortable to you.”

Vitya nods, looking back to his fiancé. 

“I’d like to just get it over with, so… t-tomorrow, maybe?” 

Yuuri reaches over, placing a hand over their already joined ones.

“If you’re okay with it, then I am.”

Vitya nods, looking back to Yakov.

“Tomorrow then.”

“Alright. I’ll give them a call and set something up. And we mean it Vitya, we’ll all be right there with you. You aren’t alone.”

“I know.” Viktor nods. “I know.”

//

“Yuuri, remember to keep your arms tight across your chest! They’re too loose, it’s throwing your balance off!”

“Hai.” 

Yuri rolls his eyes, skating in lazy circles around the perimeter of the rink.

Viktor was at the boards and had been for the past hour, shouting instructions at Katsuki, and it was starting to grate on Yuri’s nerves.

He was glad to see Katsuki back on the ice and starting to practice again, but the idiot had gotten rusty from all the months he’d taken off, and Viktor was drilling him hard. Maybe too hard. But Katsuki didn’t seem to mind. 

Everyone else at the rink had cheered when he’d taken the ice again, welcoming him and Viktor back like they hadn’t been coming here for the past few months already. But he guesses it was kind of new. Katsuki wasn’t just fucking around anymore, he was training seriously, and Viktor was coaching for real. Or, at least, he was trying to.

Viktor’s inability to express what he wanted verbally was a problem. He wasn’t totally hopeless at it or anything, but even just half listening, Yuri could hear the frustration in his voice as he tried to get Katsuki to do what he wanted.

It fucking sucked. Viktor was all about showing, not telling, but he was still way too weak to actually get out there on the ice, let alone actually _do_ anything. He was getting a little stronger, day by day. He was up to 25 push-ups now, and he could stand for short periods unassisted. Could even take a few steps before his strength betrayed him. But he still needed to be in a wheelchair, and would be for the foreseeable future.

Nobody knew if Viktor would ever be able to properly ice skate again. That thought alone left Yuri feeling sick with depression. He couldn’t imagine what that must feel like, to lose your greatest passion. He doesn’t know what he would do, if the same had happened to him.

“Yuuri, your… your inside edge when you take off into the loop is… you’re not cutting deep enough. You need… no… no, wait, stop… Yuuri…”

Viktor’s voice is growing noticeably more irritated, and when Yuri looks over at him as he glides along the boards at the opposite end of the rink, he sees him, starting to push himself up onto the barrier. Even from the distance he is away, he can see Viktor’s arms shaking as he pushes himself to his feet from his chair.

And then he realizes that Viktor is supporting himself against the board’s exit, and it happens so fast after that, he isn’t even sure of what he’s seeing.

The door swings in, and Viktor’s falling. 

He hits the ice with a loud thwack, and Yuri’s heart leaps into his throat, his eyes blowing wide in shock. 

Shit… Shit… fuck…

By the time he snaps out of his paralyzed horror, the other skaters on the rink are all already speeding towards where Viktor is, struggling to push himself up onto his hands.

Somebody must have fucking forgot to lock the gate, the dumb bastards, Yuri thinks as he finally jolts into action, flying across the ice along with everyone else.

It’s Georgie who reaches Viktor first, skidding to a halt beside him and dropping down to his knees.

“Viktor, are you okay?!” Yuri can hear him shout, his hands shooting out and wrapping around Viktor’s shoulders, hauling him up so that he can sit back.

“I… I’m alright. I’m alright.” Viktor half-laughs, but as Yuri draws nearer, he can see the expression of pain on his face and the big bruise already starting to form along the pale expanse of his forehead. Fuck, he’d obviously hit his head on the ice when he went down.

Katsuki and Mila and Chris reach him next, Yuri coming up last, and they all gather round. Yakov is already barreling down the stairs towards them.

“I’m alright, really.” Viktor is saying. He sounds embarrassed, his voice a little thin, and Yuri can tell he’s in pain.

Katsuki is in front of him, on his knees now too. He has hold of Viktor’s wrists, turning his hands over, and Yuri sees the familiar red bruising of ice burn. His knees are probably banged up too. Damn, he’d gone down hard.

“Oh, Vitya…” Katsuki starts, his voice a little wobbly, reaching up, his fingers lightly brushing over the bruise on Viktor’s forehead. “God, you hit your head.”

Viktor’s smile is strained as he looks up at all the people around him. 

“Your local Olympic Champion, ladies and gentlemen.” He laughs, but his eyes are wet. He’s trying not to cry.

It’s awful. Yuri can tell he’s humiliated, trying lamely to cover it with humor. 

“What happened?!” Yakov finally reaches them, coming onto the ice in just his shoes, joining Georgie and Katsuki on his knees.

“I… I was leaning on the boards…” Viktor starts, then stops, his voice dying in his throat.

“The door swung in.” Yuri steps in for him. “Someone forgot to lock it.” He glares around the group of other skaters accusingly. If he found out who did it, he was gonna unload on them. “He went down hard.”

“… It was my fault.” Viktor starts, and his voice is shaking now. “I’m… I should have been more aware of where I was. I… I’m an idiot. It’s no one’s fault but my own.”

And finally a tear slips free down his cheek. He reaches up, wiping clumsily at it, and Yuri looks away.

“You’re not an idiot Vitya.” Katsuki tells him softly.

“Georgie, help Yuuri get him off the ice. I’m going to get some ice packs and the team doctor.” Yakov starts, pushing himself up with some difficulty.

“Right coach.” Georgie starts.

“I’m alright.” Viktor tries to insist again. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“You could have a concussion. Don’t argue with me on this Vitya.” Yakov snaps. 

If Viktor was going to protest, it dies in his throat. For a moment he looks so crestfallen that Yuri feels his own throat close up painfully. Georgie and Katsuki have him underneath his arms, already picking him up and supporting his weight as they pull him off the ice. 

Somehow Viktor’s wheelchair got pushed back several feet from the boards. Probably from the momentum of him falling forward, and it’s a bit of a struggle for Katsuki and Georgie to get him back to it in their skates. Somehow they manage.

Yakov is back not long after, with the team doctor in tow.

After looking him over, Viktor is cleared from having a concussion and no apparent damage to his still weakened bones, and Yuri feels his shoulders sag in relief. He can tell Katsuki and the rest of them are similarly relieved.

Yakov orders Viktor home after that though, telling Katsuki to go with him. Viktor tries to argue, first for both of them to stay, and when it became clear Yakov would hear none of it, for Katsuki to stay.

Katsuki interjects then, kneeling by Viktor’s side. His hand rests on Viktor’s crown, speaking softly to him. Too softly for Yuri to hear what he says.

Viktor nods, his face drawn and unhappy. But he must agree with whatever Katsuki tells him, because a few minutes later, they’re leaving together. Chris decides to go with them.

Yuri tells them he’ll meet up with them at the apartment later.

He skates laps around the rink for more than an hour after that, until his legs feel like jelly beneath him, his lungs burning in his chest. He tries not to think of Viktor, falling and helpless on the ice. Needing to be rescued, his face and hands bruised. His idol. The best fucking figure skater he’d ever seen in his life. 

Tries not to think about how lost Viktor had looked out there, on the ice. 

The place that had once been his kingdom.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, all my thanks to all of my readers and reviewers! You guys are awesome, and I'm sorry for the long wait between chapters lately. I'm running into some writers block lately, and it's been a little difficult getting these chapters out because of it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy anyway, and please leave a comment if you have a chance.

_Here was something Yuuri doesn’t think he was ever going to get used to about Viktor._

_Just… the sweetness of him._

_But God, Viktor was just the_ sweetest _man._

_Objectively, Yuuri had always known Viktor was a nice person. He must have watched every single interview the man had ever given, from the time he was 13 years old, to just a few months ago, at the age of 27. In every one, Viktor always came across as incredibly polite and kind. He always seemed to remember everybody’s name, and even things they’d told him about themselves if they’d met before. He’d ask after them and their families before the interviews started, or how things were going in their lives and all that. Nishigori had used to try and tell him that it was all just an act. He’d say things like_ “These celebrities are trained in how to talk to the press Yuuri. Don’t you know that? He’s just doing what he’s told to do. He’s probably some total diva in real life. They usually are.”

_Yuuri remember how angry he’d used to get at Nishigori for saying things like that. He’d never talk back or argue, except to say something lame like “you don’t know anything about Viktor”, before usually going home to sit in his room and feel upset about it for hours after. _

_Yuuri can admit to himself the petty vindication he feels now, having finally really met Viktor, and getting to know him as well as he has over these last, several months. _

_Yuuri supposes Nishigori had been right in one regard, in that Viktor wasn’t really like how he came across in interviews. Poised and controlled and polite. No, he was so much better. So much more. He was so kind, and so generous and so much more beautiful than Yuuri could have ever imagined. There was a kind of almost shyness to Viktor, and a vulnerability to him that just simply didn’t come across in public. Nishigori had been wrong about Viktor being a diva. He was anything but. Maybe that had been the most surprising thing of all. Viktor wasn’t the supremely confident, sure of himself man Yuuri had thought he would have to be. When it came to his skating, yes, but just in every day life, just in general, Viktor was often times flustered and filled with nervous, self-conscious energy. He was constantly asking Yuuri’s permission to do things, constantly asking Yuuri what he thought of everything, a kind of anxious uncertainty lacing his voice when he did, his eyes almost filled with trepidation. He blushed as much as Yuuri did, and just as easily._

_And then there was this. This part of Viktor, which Yuuri found himself marveling over, no matter how many times he watched it on display._

_Viktor’s childlike wonderment._

_“Yuuri! Look at them! Oh!”_

_Viktor claps his hands, holding them clasped together against his chest, his expression pure delight as he looks up at the fireworks going off overhead._

_Yuuri knows he’s missing them, but he can’t bring himself to care, fixed as his eyes are on the man beside him. Viktor’s pale skin lights with each, bright flash of color from above, washing through his silver hair, and Yuuri’s sure he’s never seen another person in his life as beautiful as this._

_Viktor laughs, finally pulling his gaze from the display and turning, looking at Yuuri, and his expression is so fond, so impossibly loving, that for a moment, Yuuri has to look away, overcome by the unabashed, open sincerity of it. He still can’t believe anyone would look at him that way, let alone_ Viktor freakin’ Nikiforov!

_“Yuuri! You aren’t watching!” He exclaims._

_“What? O-oh! Yeah!” He shakes his head, turning to look up at the fireworks._

_Viktor laughs again, but there isn’t anything mocking in it. Nothing unkind. Only deep affection. _

_Yuuri is beginning to think Viktor is incapable of any kind of genuine meanness._

_“You’re so cute Yuuri!” Viktor says, dragging the u’s out in that particular way he does. _

_Yuuri feels his cheeks blush hot, the way they always seem to whenever Viktor turns his focused attention on him. _

_The way Viktor kept flirting with him all the time… at first, Yuuri had thought that was just the way Viktor was. A hopeless and persistent charmer. But… no. After spending nearly seven months with him now, Yuuri knew enough of him to know what he did with Yuuri wasn’t the same as what he did with everyone else. Not even a little._

_Mari insisting to him repeatedly that Viktor had a “major crush” on him, in her own words, had been something he’d thought, at first, an absurd notion. But the evidence of that being the case had been mounting for months. Viktor constantly touched him, hugged him, cuddled him. Told him again and again how cute and even beautiful he was. _

_Yuuri had thought he was teasing him when he’d offered to be his boyfriend that one time on the beach, but… he isn’t so sure now._

_He still doesn’t know what to do with that, if it’s true. If Viktor Nikiforov really wanted to be his boyfriend. Yuuri for the life of him couldn’t figure out why. But then, there were so many things about Viktor that Yuuri couldn’t really comprehend. _

_How nice he is was still baffling. There’d always been this idea he guesses, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the more successful a person was, the more aloof and detached they would have to be. The more distant._

_Viktor was anything but distant. He was affectionate and enthusiastic to the point he was even a little embarrassing. But Yuuri found that part of him to be unbelievably adorable, not that he would ever have the guts to just out and say it, the way Viktor seemed to so easily tell him he was._

_Yuuri had always admired Viktor’s willingness to be out, as well. He knows that can’t have been easy, especially living in Russia. While being gay wasn’t exactly a cake walk in Japan, and even frowned upon, it was actually illegal in Russia. Or, at least, openly declaring and displaying your homosexuality was. _

_Yuuri had only ever come out to his family, and of course Yuko and Maniko, and they had never had a problem with it. He doesn’t know if he would have the nerve to come out publicly, the way Viktor had. Though… Yuuri remembers the way Viktor had come out, after there had been an avalanche of media and tabloid stories speculating as to his sexuality, and he remembers the vicious, even cruel tint to some of those stories, particularly in some of the Russian magazines that Yuuri had collected obsessively in his younger years, and he wonders if Viktor hadn’t felt pressured into it. Into revealing something of himself that had never really been anyone’s business to begin with._

_Yuuri had always suspected Viktor was gay, just like most people, he guesses. Viktor was flamboyant and androgynous, and had never shied away from showing that part of himself. But… still, Yuuri had felt at the time, when he’d made his public statement confirming his sexuality, even then, it hadn’t sat right with him. He’d had a sinking feeling Viktor had been pressured into it, which was a horrible thought. The idea of Viktor being pressured into doing anything he didn’t want make Yuuri’s heart sink in dismay. He was such a kind, loving person._

_More than once, he’d almost asked, but he didn’t want to upset Viktor, or make him uncomfortable, so he never did._

_There were so many things about Viktor he wanted to know, wanted to ask about, about his childhood, about his experiences, about what it was like being the best figure skater in the world. But again, he was afraid of doing the wrong thing, and so he kept his questions to himself. Even when Viktor had offered to answer any questions Yuuri might have about him, enthusiastically encouraging him to ask, Yuuri had declined, his anxiety making it impossible for him to push._

_He didn’t want to mess what he had with Viktor up. Whatever it was, exactly._

_“Y-you’re cute too Viktor.” He stammers out now, feeling hi cheeks grow hotter still._

_It’s worth it though, he thinks, as he watches the pale skin of Viktor’s cheeks dust pink in return._

//

The lead prosecutor working Viktor’s case had told them all they could stay and offer support, but that they would have to refrain from interfering or trying to help Viktor during this dry run of what it was that was going to potentially happen once he was up on the witness stand.

Yuuri is finding it more and more difficult to heed to those directions as he sits near the back of the room alongside Yakov, Chris and Yuri, watching as the prosecutor drills Viktor again and again with awful, invasive, even cruel questions, while Viktor visibly begins to come undone at the seams.

Yuuri clutches his hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

This is awful.

They’ve only been going at it maybe twenty minutes, but Viktor has already needed to be stopped and coached through is answers several times, needing just as many breaks for how distraught and emotional he was becoming. Yuuri couldn’t begin to blame him. The questions were unbelievable, the hostility in how they were being worded. More than once, Yuuri had nearly stood from his seat and screamed for them to stop attacking his fiancé, to stop being so cruel to him, only for Yakov’s hand to clamp down on his arm and keep him still, the old coach shaking his head at him, his own expression strained and unhappy.

Logically, Yuuri understood that this was necessary. That they were just trying to prepare Viktor so that, when the actual trial began, he would be able to handle whatever it was the defense team was going to try and pull to get the monsters who had attacked Viktor off.

Knowing that didn’t make this any better.

“Mr. Nikiforov, aren’t you aware that it’s technically illegal in this country to engage in or otherwise publicly flaunt the sort of unsavory lifestyle you’ve come to be associated with, most notably you publicly engaging in sexual relations with members of the same sex as you?”

Viktor blinks at the prosecutor, his mouth opening and closing several times, before he finally stammers out an answer.

“Y-yes.”

“Well, Mr. Nikiforov, if you’re aware of this law, why then have you repeatedly and without any apparent remorse continued to break it in so flagrant a manner?”

Again, Viktor’s mouth works, as if trying to come up with a suitable answer, unable to find one, and Yuuri knows, he _knows_ the prosecutor is just trying to help, but the way he barrels over Viktor before he can even answer makes his blood boil with rage.

“Isn’t it right, Mr. Nikiforov, that you’ve made a point, in fact, of flaunting and publicly displaying your current, same sex engagement to a student of yours? A young man named Yuuri Katsuki? I understand this young man is in fact several years younger than you. There are some people who might call that predatory behavior.”

Viktor’s eyes go wide, his face somehow growing even more pale.

“N-no! That… that’s not true! That isn’t what it is! I would never… I could never…”

“Okay, okay Mr. Nikiforov, listen, I need you to pull back and try to stay calm. You can’t let your emotions get the better of you during this kind of cross examination. Remember, the goal of the defense lawyers is going to be to try and besmirch your character. To make you look bad and like you can’t be trusted. Like you’re unreliable. In order to counteract that, you’re going to have to try and remain calm and detached, and give clear, unemotional responses. Just stick to the fact, okay?”

“B-but…”

“So if one of the defense lawyers tries to portray you as some sort of deviant or sexual predator, you simply need to answer with cooly delivered facts. Don’t get defensive. Explain as calmly as you can why you aren’t any sort of deviant or predator. Right?”

Viktor looks like he’s going to burst into tears any moment, and Yuuri can barely stand it. If it’s even half this bad during the actual trial, he doesn’t know how any of them are going to make it through it. Especially with all of the stress already weighing down on them.

“O-okay.” Viktor forces out after a moment.

He sucks in a few, deep breathes, obviously trying to calm down.

“Alright, so, Mr. Nikiforov, what do you say to the idea that the kind of lifestyle you lead, a homosexual lifestyle, which is technically illegal in Russia, is perceived by many to be an unhealthy and even a corrupting influence on the youth of our country?”

Yuuri’s eyes stay fixed on Viktor, watching as he looks away from the prosecutor, down at his lap, fidgeting and nervous. His face is lined in pain. Like the weight of years of experience of having these kinds of accusations leveled at him, and Yuuri wonders if that’s what it is. He knows Viktor’s had to deal with prejudice, living here in Russia his entire life. He knows he used to get bullied. But he only knows these things from passing comments from other people. Viktor never spoke to him about it directly. Never in any detail, anyway.

“I… I would say sexual orientation isn’t a choice.” Viktor starts at last, his voice thin and trembling. “I would say that… that any relationship, s-sexual or otherwise between two consenting adults isn’t unhealthy and… and isn’t corrupting to anyone, since sexual orientation isn’t dictated by outside influence, b-but the chemical makeup of your genes, o-of your brain.”

Yuuri smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. He feels proud of Viktor for being able to give such a coherent, articulate answer, even as he knows how difficult it was for him to do this at all.

“So you don’t think, for example, that kissing another man on the mouth, in public, would be detrimental, or in any way influence the thousands of young children that look up to you and want to be _just like you_?” The prosecutor presses, and Viktor looks up at him.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I… th-they may feel inspired to explore their sexuality, o-or embrace what’s already true about them, but… but them seeing my relationship with another man isn’t… isn’t going to make them gay. That isn’t what makes anyone gay. I grew up with two straight parents, a-and then later I lived with my coach and his wife, both of whom are straight. I wasn’t… I wasn’t exposed to any sort of homosexual activity until much later in life, but I… I knew I was gay when I was a young boy. Eleven, twelve at the most. I… it wasn’t because of anything outside of me. You just feel what you feel. It’s part of who you’re born as, not… not because you saw one man kiss another.”

“So you don’t agree with the laws of our country, Mr. Nikiforov?”

Viktor shakes his head.

“I don’t agree with the law forbidding open displays of homosexual relationships, no. I agree with most of our countries laws, and I’ve always been a law-abiding citizen. I… I’ve never hurt anybody, or stolen anything from anybody. But punishing someone for loving another person, just because they’re the same sex, no, I… I don’t think that’s right. I don’t think that’s okay at all.”

Beside him, Yuuri hears Yuri whisper “hell yeah” to himself, and he can’t help smiling again. Viktor was amazing. His answer was said with so much confidence, so much truth, even after everything. He was so courageous. God, Viktor was so courageous. 

The coaching continues on for close to an hour longer, and by the end of it, Viktor is slumped down in his chair, looking completely wiped out.

The relief Yuuri feels when the prosecutor at last announces that they were finished is overwhelming, and he stands, followed by Chris, then Yakov and Yuri. He just wants to get Viktor out of there already.

“You did very good Mr. Nikiforov. Very good. Just keep in mind everything we went over, what to expect on the day of your actual testimony, to keep a cool head and give the kind of answers you gave me, and everything will be fine.”

He reaches out, taking Viktor’s hand in a light grip and shaking.

Viktor mutters out a thank you, and then he’s looking over at Yuuri, his eyes desperate and exhausted. Yuuri feels his heart sink. He was starting to get used to Viktor looking like this. Gaunt and wane and too thin, the bags under his eyes heavy and dark. He was beginning to look frail, and it scared Yuuri. There seemed to be so little left of the vibrant, energetic, joyous man he’d fallen in love with. Little left of the world class athlete that Viktor had once been. More than that. The greatest in the history of their sport. He looked like a shell of his former self, and it broke Yuuri’s heart every day.

Yuuri doesn’t hesitate as he makes his way over, kneeling down and engulfing Viktor in a tight hug. Viktor hugs him back, his face pressed to Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Can we go home now Yuuri?” He hears him ask, and Yuuri nods, biting the inside of his cheek to distract from the burning in his eyes.

“Of course baby. We’ll go home now.”

//

Viktor hisses as Yuuri helps him out of his button up, his face screwing up in obvious discomfort, and Yuuri freezes.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his hand on Viktor’s shoulder, steadying him.

Viktor doesn’t answer for a long moment, his breaths coming slow, trying to keep them steady.

“Y-yeah, I just… just a twinge in my collarbone. I’m alright.” 

He sounds breathless, and Yuuri watches his face for long seconds, until he sees the lines of pain relax.

“Can you keep going?” He asks finally, and Viktor gives a shallow nod.

Yuuri tries to be as careful as possible as he continues pulling the shirt from Viktor’s shoulders, stripping it off completely before setting to work on getting his slacks removed.

It was hard.

Viktor was no longer constrained by casts or broken bones, but his body was frail, and the pain he still experienced was, at times, severe, bordering of crippling, on his bad days. The doctors said it should get more manageable over time, but that the pain was likely never to go completely. There had just been too many multiple fractures in the bones, too much necessary metal screws to hold it all together. Not to mention the nerve damage, which some days left Viktor is so much pain, he could do nothing but lie in their bed and weep weakly against his pillow, Yuuri useless as he would sit with him, rubbing circles against his back, asking desperately what he could do. But there was nothing, really. Only the pain pills, which Viktor hated, and which he tried so much not to have to use, because he didn’t like the way they made him feel. Some days it just couldn’t be helped though.

He was still too physically weak to wash himself in the shower, and so, after getting Viktor undressed, Yuuri gets the water going, waiting for it to warm, before he simply hauls his fiancé up into his arms and carries him over to the stall, placing him gently down on to the seat still installed there.

Viktor’s hands cling to his shoulders, slumping forward as the spray washes over him. His hair falls, curtaining his face. It’s past his shoulders now. With how skinny he’s become, he looks, more than ever, like the young phenom Yuuri had watched on television growing up. The Russian prodigy that had taken the skating world by storm. Except, that the teenaged Vitya had never looked so dejected. So worn and weighed down by exhaustion and pain. 

Yuuri reaches out, sweeping Viktor’s hair gently back off his face.

“Vitya…” he says quietly, and Viktor looks up at him, his seeing eye dull and weary, his blind eye faded, grey and wandering. The starburst of scar tissue which surrounds that eyes socket, running up into a thick line which disappears into Viktor’s hairline, has faded now to a stark white, no longer so glaring as the angry pink of a fresh scar, but still unmistakable. It would be there forever, Yuuri knew. A constant reminder of what had happened. 

Yuuri shoves the thoughts from his mind, cupping Viktor’s cheek in his palm, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

Viktor doesn’t kiss back, but sits still, and when Yuuri pulls back, he finds Viktor looking back at him, a look of such naked vulnerability on his face, that it nearly puts tears in his eyes.

“You did so good today Vitya.” Yuuri says, and he means it. “You were so brave.”

“… I don’t want to do it Yuuri.” Viktor says suddenly. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to testify. O-or see those men again. I can’t… I… don’t think I can.”

“Yes you can Viktor. You can.”

Again Viktor shakes his head.

“But what if I can’t? Will they… will they still go to prison, even if I don’t testify? Yuuri, I’m scared. I’m scared.”

Yuuri’s heart feels like it’s being squeezed by a vice in his chest, the ache a palpable and breathtaking pain. 

“I know you are sweetheart. Oh I know. It’s okay to be. It’s okay.”

“I keep thinking, Yuuri, if they don’t go to prison, th-they’ll be out there on the streets, and they’ll… they’ll do this to someone else. Yuuri, what if… what if they come after you? When they… I remember when they… they were beating me, and they were saying all these horrible things, a-about us, about you, and I can’t… I can’t let them get out again Yuuri, but I don’t want to see them again, t-to have to talk about what they did in front of them.”

There are tears in Viktor’s eyes, and they slip free, clinging to his pale and gaunt cheeks for a moment before being washed away by the spray of the shower head.

Yuuri reaches up, taking his face in both his hands.

“Vitya, no, no. They aren’t going to get out, and they aren’t going to hurt anybody else ever again. Okay? Because we aren’t going to let them. Vitya, you’re not alone in this. Okay? I know it’s scary. I know it is. But all of us are going to be in that court room with you. Just… if you have to, on the day of your testimony, just keep your eyes on me. Alright? Just keep looking at me. Just like you’re doing right now.”

Viktor reaches back, his hands grasping loosely over Yuuri’s wrists, and he leans forward, laying his forehead against Yuuri’s own.

“… Okay.” He whispers. “Okay Yuuri.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm so sorry for the long, LONG delay with this chapter! I've had a heck of a case of writers block, but I'm trying to get back into the groove of things here! I hope some of you are still around and interested! If so, I hope you enjoy the new chapter, and if so, please leave a review!

Yuuri sits and watches Viktor try and fail for the third time to knot his tie.

His hands are shaking too badly for him to do it, and finally Yuuri steps to him.

“Here, let me help.” He says quietly.

Viktor stills for a moment, before his hands fall away from his collar, his head hanging down. He doesn’t protest. Resigned. Yuuri feels his heart sink as he gets down on his knees in front of his fiancé, taking the ends of Viktor’s tie.

It’s a matter of a few seconds for him to get it done, sliding the knot up until it sits firm against the base of Viktor’s collar, not too tight to constrict.

Viktor’s hands rest on his lap, fingers curled against the material of his dress slacks, trying to stop the trembling.

Yuuri stares up into his face, and thinks how handsome he looks, despite… everything.

His hair falls loose and clean over his eyes, and Yuuri reaches up, brushing it back up off his forehead.

“Do you want to wear your hair slicked back, or keep it like this?” He asks gently, and Viktor’s eyes finally rise up to meet his. They’re glassy and a little red rimmed, and Yuuri knows it’s in part because Viktor really didn’t get much sleep last night.

How could he, he thinks, when he knew what he would be facing today?

“W-whatever you think’s best?” Viktor says.

Yuuri smiles weakly.

“You look beautiful either way. If your hair in your eyes doesn’t bother you, we could keep it like this.”

“Okay.” 

Yuuri smiles again, taking hold of Viktor’s face between his hands and leaning up, kissing him against the lips.

“You’re going to be fine.” He promises. “I’m going to be with you the whole time. So is Yakov and Yurio and Chris. Lilia too. We’re all there with you Vitya.”

Viktor reaches back, grasping hold of Yuuri’s hand, squeezing gently.

“I know. I know.” He says. He tries smiling, the expression fragile. “I’m scared.”

Yuuri feels his eyes burn, and he nods. He turns his hand in Viktor’s hold, grasping it back and bringing it to his lips, kissing it.

“I know you are. It’s okay. You don’t have to testify today. It’s just a preliminary hearing, remember? We won’t even be there that long.”

“I know, but… they’ll be there. They’ll be there Yuuri. They’ll be able to see me this time, and you. I don’t want them to see you.”

“I know baby, but they won’t be able to do anything to either of us. Okay? We’ll be surrounded by police officers. We’ll be safe.”

Viktor looks like he wants to believe it. Desperately so. But his face remains tight with uncertainty, thin and gaunt, skin smudged black beneath his eyes. He looks so much older than he is, and Yuuri hates it. He hates all of this so, so much. 

On top of it all, there was the media to worry about. They were going to be there, no doubt, crowded outside of the courtroom with their invasive and cruel questions. 

Yuuri had done all he could these last, several months to shield Viktor from the media coverage and press, but it was impossible to block all of it out, and here in Russia, the prevailing sentiment was against the gay community. 

It was so disgusting. Viktor was a national hero. The pride of one of their most popular and prominent sports. As long as he was winning titles for them and breaking records, they could ignore his sexual orientation. But the moment that stopped, they’d turned on him with petty ugliness and stupidity. Viktor had sacrificed everything for them, and this was how they repaid him. 

They’d stopped short of saying he deserved what happened to him, but the general bent of the coverage had been that, if he hadn’t so openly “flaunted” his sexuality the way he had, then the attack never would have happened. 

It was enough to reduce Yuuri to tearful bouts of rage, which he tried he best to hide from Viktor, locking himself in the bathroom, or when at the rink, in the locker rooms, stifling his sobs against his arm. 

Still, Viktor was far from stupid, and he knew. He knew the pressure all of this was putting, not just on Yuuri, but all of them, and it only added to Viktor’s own anxiety and worry.

It was horrible, and Yuuri wants all of this to be over just as much as Viktor. He thinks they all do.

The prosecutor’s say they think the trial won’t last more than six weeks, but that seems like an eternity to Yuuri. He can’t imagine what it must feel like to Viktor. Making it worse, the prosecutor’s also say that it’s imperative that Viktor be in the courtroom every day, in order to show conviction and a sense of “being in the right”. It’s absurd. Yuuri doesn’t think Viktor should have to do anything to show that. It was obvious who was right and who was wrong in this case. But he also understands, given the media coverage of all of this. The media would have a field day, if Viktor wasn’t present for the prosecution of the men who had attacked him. 

But Viktor having to sit there every day, for that many weeks, in the same room as those men, listening to all of the evidence, having to relive that awful night again and again…

It’s just too awful. Too painful. Even with his and the others support, Yuuri knows this is going to be hell on Viktor. And he was already struggling so much with his depression.

“You look so handsome.” Yuuri leans in again, pressing another kiss to Viktor’s lips. 

He pulls back and Viktor is looking up at him, smiling weakly.

“You don’t have to say that.” He says quietly. “I know I look terrible.”

Yuuri shakes his head, his hand slipping up to card his fingers through Viktor’s hair.

“No you don’t. You could never look terrible Viktor. I mean that. Okay?”

Viktor looks like he doesn’t quite believe it, but he smiles back at Yuuri anyway.

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna go see how everyone else is doing. Don’t forget your jacket. Are you sure you don’t want to eat something before we head out?”

Viktor shakes his head no.

“I can’t eat right now.” He says, and Yuuri nods.

He understands too well how your anxiety can mess with your appetite. 

“Okay, I’ll be right back to come get you. Just a few minutes.” He pushes himself back to standing, pressing a kiss to the crown of Viktor’s head, turning to head back out to the living room.

“Yuuri…”

He stops at Viktor’s voice, and turns, seeing his fiancé looking back up at him.

“… Thank you.” Viktor says, voice quiet, almost a whisper. 

Yuuri swallows, nodding, his eyes burning.

“Of course.” He forces out, his own voice thin and strained.

He forces himself to turn away then, and out the door of their bedroom.

//

Yakov, Yurio and Chris were huddle together on the couch in the living room, Makkachin resting her head on Yakov’s lap, squeezed in between him and his student. They look nervous and tense, all of them.

Yuuri isn’t surprised. He was trying to keep himself calm for Viktor’s sake, but he was feeling his own anxiety beginning to mount, worsening the closer they got to the time when this hearing was meant to start.

He’d told Viktor they would be alright, that there wasn’t any danger, despite having to be in the same room as the men that had done this to him. But, even though Yuuri knew that what he said was born from logic, that it was _true_, he still felt the same fear and nauseas dread which he was sure Viktor was struggling with. 

These men, these _monsters_, had nearly killed Viktor. Had completely changed his life because they’d beaten him so brutally. 

Yuuri had never seen them face to face. He’d seen them through a two-way mirror, when he knew they couldn’t see him. That would be different today. Today, they would be able to look at each other. See each other. 

The thought was terrifying, and Yuuri tries now not to dwell on it.

Stay focused, he tells himself. In the present. He had to do that for Viktor. 

“How is he?” Chris asks first when he notices Yuuri standing there. The others look up, straightening where they sit, looking to him expectantly.

“Okay.” Yuuri answers. “He’s getting into his jacket. I just came to check if you guys were ready. We have to be there by nine.”

He glances down at his watch. It’s five past eight now. It’ll take maybe twenty minutes to get to the courthouse. 

They were going to have to make it through the throng of media out front. They had maybe five minutes then before they’d have to take off.

“We’re ready.” Yakov says. He gives Makkachin a final stroke along the top of her head, before pushing himself to his feet. “Lilia’s going to meet us there.”

“Okay.” Yuuri nods. “We’ll leave in a few minutes then. The media’s gonna be crazy, probably. So we have to try and protect Viktor as much as we can. I’ll push his wheelchair if the three of you just kind of keep around us and keep people back. How does that sound?”

“I’ll fuckin’ deck any asshole that comes too close, don’t fuckin’ worry!” Yurio snaps, and Yuuri can’t help but smile at the younger man.

“We’ll keep the reporters back.” Chris agrees, getting to his own feet. “Just focus on Viktor.”

“Okay. You guys are awesome.” Yuuri says, and he means it. He honestly doesn’t know what he would have done these past, several months without all of them and the incredible way they’ve supported him and Viktor both. “I’ll go get Vitya, and then we can head out.”

//

He doesn’t end up smashing anyone’s face in, but he comes damn close, Yuri thinks, his teeth grinding together in barely contained rage.

It was a fucking media circus out front of the courthouse. Fucking blood sucking parasites. Yuri had tried to block out the bullshit questions they kept shouting at Viktor, but he wasn’t deaf, and he caught more than he wanted, his blood boiling hotter with each one.

They had no fucking _shame_. They didn’t give a shit how much they were hurting Viktor, or that Viktor was already in so much god damned pain. They didn’t fucking care that just doing this, showing up to this thing took more courage than any of them could ever even _imagine_ having.

Fucking _bastards_.

By the time they’d made it into the building, Viktor had been breathing hard, his face somehow even more pale than usual, his hand tight and shaking visibly while he clung to Katsuki’s own. 

It was so fucked up.

Viktor was a master at handling the media. He’d always seemed to hold them in the palm of his hand, charming them with expert precision, controlling what they saw, deciding what he would _allow_ them to see.

Now it was like he couldn’t handle them at all. Every time he was faced with them and their horrible, invasive questions, it left him shaken and frightened, mute with anxiety and humiliation.

Viktor had _changed_ because of what was done to him, and Yuri hated it. He hated it so fucking much. Because Viktor didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of this god damned bullshit. He’d never done anything to hurt anyone. He’d only ever done his best to help people. Even when he forgot shit and spaced out, he never meant to. And he always went the extra mile to make up for it after. He was a good person. Even when he was being an annoying dork, he was _good_.

Fuck, Yuri thinks, he needs to stop thinking about this crap.

They were in the courtroom now, waiting for the bastards who’d done this to Viktor to be brought in.

Viktor hadn’t been allowed to sit with all of them. The prosecutor said he needed to sit up front, with them, as the plaintiff. That was bullshit. They were all in the first row, just behind him, and Yuri can see Viktor’s shoulders are stiff as a board where he sits, rigid and filled with obvious tension.

Katsuki keeps fidgeting beside him, and it’s plain to anyone how hard it is for him not to reach out and touch Viktor, to try and comfort him in some way. Hell, Yuri wants to do it himself. Viktor shouldn’t have to be separated from them. Not now.

The whole damned room is filled with nervous energy, Yuri thinks, glancing around. All the people here are sitting up straight, their stupid heads swiveling back and forth in anticipation. They keep looking over at Viktor, then leaning in close and whispering to each other, and Yuri feels an intense urge to scream at them. To tell them to fuck off and leave Viktor alone. The bastards had no right to stare at him the way they were. Talking about him.

He knows what they’re saying. Talking about how frail Viktor looks. How he’s still stuck in a wheelchair, more than four months after he’d gotten out of the hospital. How tired he looks. How resigned.

The stupid fucks had no right. They had no fucking idea what Viktor has been through. How hard he’s worked to get back to any kind of normality. How hard he’s fought. Not a single one of them could have made it through what Viktor has. And yet there they were, gossiping and judging Viktor, like they were somehow better than him. It makes Yuri fucking sick. 

It’s almost a shock, then, when a side door on the other side of the room comes open, and all the chatter stops dead.

Yuri turns, and first he sees two armed guards walk through, glancing quickly around the room before turning and motioning for someone else to follow.

It’s them.

It’s the fucking sons of bitches that attacked Viktor.

Yuri feels his entire body go cold, his muscles bunching up, sudden and hard.

Beside him, he can hear a sharp intake of breath, and he knows Katsuki has seen them too. A moment later, the older skater’s hand is groping for his, and Yuri doesn’t protest, grabbing it back and squeezing tight.

If Yuuri had thought these men looked big while staring at them through a two-way mirror, it’s nothing compared to seeing them face to face like this, only a few feet away. They’re massive, every one of them. Muscular and powerful looking in a way that makes Yuri’s guts twist and nausea burn at his throat. Especially compared to Viktor as he is now, so horribly thin and frail…

Yuri’s eyes snap to Viktor, and he sees him, the line of his shoulders impossibly more rigid than before, his head bowed down and staring at the top of the table in front of him. He isn’t looking at the men, but Yuri knows he’s seen them. He’s trembling, the tremors obvious as they work with increasing intensity down his rail thin frame. 

Yuri watches, a feeling of wretched helplessness overpowering him as one of the lawyers on their side puts his arm around Viktor’s shoulders, trying to offer him some kind of comfort. The man leans in close, speaking into Viktor’s ear, and Viktor reaches up from beneath the table, his hand fisting into his hair.

Oh, it’s terrible. It’s terrible, Yuri thinks. Viktor shouldn’t have to go through this. He _shouldn’t_. God. 

“They’re fucking _smiling at him_.” He hears Katsuki breathe, his voice shaking with barely checked rage, and Yuri’s eyes snap back to the men. They are. All four of them. They’re all looking over at Viktor, smirking at him.

Yuri almost loses it.

He feels himself starting to stand, his mouth already opening, ready to scream every vicious insult he can fathom at the monsters. He’s only stopped by a harsh grip around his wrist and a sharp tug. He turns to see Yakov has reached across Katsuki and taken hold of him, keeping him down in his seat. His coach looks grimly back at him, giving a single shake of his head, the message clear. 

_Don’t_.

Yuri thinks for a moment he’ll argue. To hell with proper etiquette or whatever the fuck! To hell with how he’s _supposed_ to act! 

These _fuckers_… these absolutes _pieces of shit_ were _smiling_ at Viktor. Like… like they thought this whole fucking thing was a _joke_. Like what they’d done to Viktor was a fucking _god damned joke_! Like they were laughing about it! Like they were laughing at Viktor! 

Rage boils up so fast in Yuri, it feels like a moment he’ll choke to death on it. He can feel his face twist in some unknown expression, the sound of his own, harsh breaths deafening in his ears. His eyes burn viciously suddenly, his vision blurring. 

They were laughing at Viktor, after what they’d done to him. His… his best friend. His fucking best friend in the whole fucking world. They were _laughing_ at him like it wasn’t any big deal, the fact that they’d absolutely fucking _destroyed_ his life.

Yuri doesn’t know if he can do this. He doesn’t know if he can sit in the same room as those fucking disgusting freaks for however the fuck long this piece of shit trial was supposed to take and control himself. He doesn’t know if…

Katsuki’s hand in his own squeezes suddenly tighter. Almost painfully tight. Yuri’s mind snaps out of his spiraling thoughts, and he looks up at the older skater, Yuri’s dark eyes fixed on his own, a quiet, frightening intensity unlike anything Yuri’s ever seen from him before. He looks murderous, his mouth set in a thin, furious line. Yuri starts, taken aback. 

“I know.” Katsuki says to him, his voice a rough whisper. “I _know_.”

Yuri feels the rage drain from him. 

Katsuki understands. He understands what he was feeling. 

Yuri squeezes his hand back. Clinging like his life depends suddenly on it.

Katsuki understands. 

They both needed to hang on for Viktor. They needed to hang on for him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, all my thanks to all my reader and reviewers! You guys are awesome! If you have a chance, please leave a review and I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

There’s an audible gasp through the audience as the projection screen throws up an image of Viktor’s face immediately after his many, extensive surgeries. When he’d still been in a coma, fighting just to survive.

It’s horrific. 

Viktor’s never looked at these pictures. He couldn’t bear to. Looking at them now, he feels a bizarre detachment. Like he isn’t really looking at a picture of himself. That’s someone else up on the screen. That’s another person.

It looks nothing like him.

A distorted, grotesque mask, eyes swollen fat and shut, face a mass of purple and black and blue, half hidden by blood soaked bandages, head half shaved. 

What expression can be seen is slack nothingness. A fallen, shapeless sack. He looks old and withered. Disgusting.

Shame floods him suddenly, and Viktor forces his eyes away, his ears barely hearing what the prosecutor is saying.

“These photos were taken less than an hour after Mr. Nikiforov had undergone no fewer than eight, separate surgeries, including life saving emergency surgeries to repair a ruptured spleen and collapsed left lung. As you can see here, taken a week after the surgeries, Mr. Nikiforov’s right eye and ear also suffered irreparable damage, leaving him permanently blind in that eye and more than 60 percent deaf in that ear, caused by repeated blows to the face and head using this…”

An officer presents the wooden bat that the men had beaten Viktor with, wrapped in a plastic evidence bag. There’s still blood on it. Dried to a dark, rust color. His blood, Viktor realizes. His stomach lurches. For a moment, he’s sure he’s going to be sick.

“Mr. Nikiforov also suffered multiple broken bones, including both femur bones, requiring yet more surgery, multiple breaks and fractures in his arms and ribs, a shattered collar bone, tibia and patella. As you can see, Mr. Nikforov, nearly seven months after the attack, is still wheelchair bound and unable to walk more than a few steps. This was a world class athlete, ladies and gentlemen. A man many consider to be the greatest figure skater of all time. A physical specimen. He can now barely walk. Because of what these men did to him.”

The prosecutor points to the men. Viktor keeps his eyes locked on the table in front of him. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to remember that these four men, who you see, seated just over there, intentionally and with predetermination, attacked and beat Mr. Nikiforov with a deadly weapon, very much with the intent to kill him, for which they nearly succeeded. This attack was unprovoked. As you’ll learn in testimony from Mr. Nikiforov himself, he had been doing nothing more than walking home one evening, going home to his fiancé, Mr. Katsuki, with the intention of celebrating together their mutual success as top, elite figure skaters. These four men approached Mr. Nikiforov, posing at first as fans, only to then viciously attacked and brutally beat him with this baseball bat. Their reason, they claimed, was because of nothing more than Mr. Nikforov’s sexual orientation. Because he loves another man. Another, consenting adult. That blood you see, dried on the weapon? That belongs to Mr. Nikiforov. He nearly died. If his fiancé, Mr. Katsuki, hadn’t sensed something was wrong and gone to look for him, he would have. This, ladies and gentlemen, was nothing less than attempted murder. These men are vicious criminals and killers. If you need proof of the extent of their brutality, the photographs you’ve seen should be more than enough to convince, I think. But for contrasts sack, this is Mr. Nikiforov before the attack. This is what he looked like, and what he could do.”

There are photo’s up on the projection screen of Viktor out on the ice. Pictures of him in the last competition he participated in. Russian Nationals. He’d… he’d broken his own world records again, though they didn’t count. 

The same as he’d felt detached, looking at the photographs of himself lying broken and half dead, he feels the same watching himself as he was before. He doesn’t recognize that man anymore. He isn’t that person now. He won’t ever be again.

The photo’s switch to video, and Viktor watches in a dazed fugue, his own form gliding with brilliant ease and sureness across the ice. Watches himself launch up high into a quad axel. Four and a half rotations, he lands light and perfect, his free leg out behind him, held for long seconds. That’s right. He was the only person in the world who could do that. He… he had been, anyway. He can’t do that anymore. He can’t… can’t even make it to the bathroom on his own, anymore. 

He’d tried, this morning. He’d tried, and he’d fallen, and Yuuri had come to help him, and Viktor had begun sobbing brokenly because… because it didn’t seem like he was getting any better. It didn’t seem like he ever would. He was so weak now. So useless and weak.

The prosecutor is talking again, narrating the video. He’s telling the jury how Viktor has broken his own and others world records well over 25 times in his career. How he’s the most decorated figure skater of all time. How he’s considered the greatest, most complete figure skater, man or woman, to ever touch the ice. 

His words slide over Viktor without meaning. Without feeling. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about any of that now.

He just wants this to be over. This never-ending nightmare. He wants to go home with Yuuri, and Makkachin, and Yura and Yakov and Lilia and Chris. He wants to go home. He doesn’t want to be here, in this courtroom, with those… those men. 

He can feel them across the room. Can feel them staring at him.

Not since this trial began has Viktor been able to look at them.

He knows… he knows, when he gets up on that stand to testify, he’s going to have to. He’s going to be asked to identify them, and he’s going to have to. Oh… oh God, he doesn’t want to. 

That first day a week ago had been worse than Viktor could ever have imagined.

The charges against the four men who had attacked him had been read out, along with their names. Their names, which Viktor heard for the first time, and wishes he hadn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking of them. 

Assault with a deadly weapon. Assault and battery. Attempted murder. Robbery. On and on it had went.

When the judge had asked them how they plead, their lawyer had said “not guilty”. 

A murmur had gone up through the audience at that, and Viktor had felt his vision black out, his head suddenly too light. 

Not guilty…

He’d wondered if anyone would believe them. He wondered how they would justify their plea. What they would say about him.

He… he hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t done anything to them, and they’d… they’d hated him so much. They’d hit him so hard and…

He hadn’t even realized he’d started crying until the prosecutor had put his arm around him again, trying to help him, and Viktor had felt so ashamed. Embarrassed that he couldn’t even control himself in front of all of these people. All of these strangers. 

In front of them.

He’d wanted so desperately to turn around and find Yuuri. To hide away in his arms and not have to face any of this.

But Yuuri hadn’t been allowed to sit with him, and they’d told Viktor that he shouldn’t interact with any of his friends or family during the trial. That he had to appear to remain neutral. 

Viktor doesn’t understand what that means. 

How was he supposed to be neutral about this?

They’ve got their first witness up on the stand now. Viktor hadn’t even heard them call him. 

The doctor who’d treated him at the hospital. They’re asking him questions about what condition he was in when he was brought in.

Viktor stares at his hands as the doctor’s voice drones on in the background. He can’t move his fingers right anymore. He can’t hold a pen, or a fork or knife very well. Too much nerve damage. Too much lost sensation. When he touches Yuuri, he can’t feel him.

Because he’d tried covering his head, tried shielding his head from the blows coming from above. Some kind of base instinct which’d kicked in. And Viktor’s hands were ruined now. 

He hears only glimpses of what the doctor is saying.

“What sort of condition was Mr. Nikiforov in that night?” The prosecutor asks.

“Near death.” The doctor answers. His voice is dry. Matter of fact. Viktor can’t breathe very well. His chest feels too tight. “Well, firstly, Mr. Nikiforov had been left out in below freezing temperatures. You have to remember, this was in November of last year. He’d been left out in those conditions by his assailants, after beating him unconscious, for more than an hour. Mr. Katsuki found him and called an ambulance. If Mr. Katsuki hadn’t found him when he did, Mr. Nikiforov would be dead, if not from his injuries, then from exposure. He was suffering from severe frostbite when he was brought in, and was severely hypothermic, his core body temperature dangerously low.”

“What was his temperature?” 

“Right around 90 degrees.”

“And what’s a normal body temperature?”

“Around 98.6. It doesn’t sound like a big difference, but it is. What hypothermia means is that the body is losing heat faster than it can produce it. So any longer out in the cold like that, and Mr. Nikiforov would have frozen to death.”

“Okay. And can you explain to the court what sort of physical condition Mr. Nikiforov was in, other than what you just described?”

“Yes.” The doctor goes on. “When Mr. Nikiforov was brought in, he was in extreme physical trauma. What I mean by that is, his body had gone into a state of shock in an attempt to cope with the severity of the injuries it had sustained. Upon our initial examination, we found Mr. Nikforov to have suffered a total of eleven full breaks, and several other smaller partial breaks and fractures to his skeletal structure, including a shattered collarbone, both femur’s broken, five broken ribs, a broken tibia and patella, a shattered ear drum in his right ear, and a crushed right orbital bone. Both of those last two injuries resulted in permanent hearing loss and permanent, total blindness in the eye and ear, as well as significant nerve damage in his hands.”

“In his hands?”

“Yes. Mr. Nikiforov attempted to protect himself once the assault began by covering up his head. Unfortunately, his hands suffered several, blunt impacts due to his attempt, which have left them with, again, permanent nerve damage.

Mr. Nikiforov also suffered a ruptured spleen and collapsed left lung, and was suffering from severe internal bleeding. Because of the extent of the damage, we were forced to put him into a medically induced coma in order to perform emergency, life saving surgery on him. There was a real danger, due to the blunt force trauma to his head, of brain swelling. We were very concerned about that. Luckily, we were able to avoid that happening, which is also one reason why Mr. Nikiforov was able to survive. It also helped that he was in tremendous physical condition due to his profession as an elite athlete. If he hadn’t been, it isn’t at all guaranteed that he would have survived all of the surgeries we were forced to perform.”

“So, what you’re saying, Doctor, is that Mr. Nikiforov almost died?”

“Yes.” The doctor answers. “He was almost beaten to death.”

“And in your medical opinion, what object did you think had been used to attack Mr. Nikforov to cause such extensive damage?”

“We felt it had to be either a wooden baseball bat, or a staff of some kind. We found grains of wood embedded in parts of Mr. Nikforov’s skin. A bat seemed the more likely option, given the type and shape of the bruising. It had to have been a heavy object, wielded by someone physically powerful. In addition, Mr. Nikforov had also been choked around the throat by what we believe was a metal chain. The bruising to his throat and larynx suggested to us that he had been choked from behind, the chain pulled taught against his throat and held to nearly the point of suffocation.”

Another, anxious murmur works through the audience, people beginning to talk. The judge bangs his gavel, shushing them.

The questions continue.

“And in your experience Doctor, have you ever seen another patient brought to you in similar condition to what Mr. Nikiforov was in?”

“Victims of automobile accidents, I would say, are the only comparable cases I’ve treated. People who have been in very bad car wrecks. The injuries Mr. Nikiforov suffered are tantamount to that.”

Viktor tunes them out.

He can’t listen to this anymore. He doesn’t want to.

He feels like everyone is looking at him, and he feels small. Like some sort of helpless, weak child. 

It’s all so clinical, what happened to him. The way they’re describing it. Like it happened to someone else.

But it happened to _him_. And none of what they’re saying means anything, because all he knows is what he’d felt when it was happening. All he knows is how much pain there’d been, and how the fear, the terror, had eaten him alive. How scared he’d been, how much it hurt. It plays again and again in a loop in his mind.

He can’t forget it.

He won’t ever be able to.

He can’t look at them. At the men who did this to him. He knows it’s cowardly. But they scare him. He’s afraid of them. He can’t help it. He’s so afraid of them. 

Just knowing they’re there, in the same room… if he lets himself think about it, Viktor feels sick with terror. 

He can’t look. 

The prosecutor is done.

The defense lawyer is up now. He begins asking questions. 

Viktor doesn’t think any of them make sense.

“Had you ever examined Mr. Nikiforov before?”

The doctor shakes his head.

“No. This was my first time treating him.”

“So, you’re not his regular physician?”

“No.”

“But you had access to Mr. Nikiforov’s medical records?”

“Yes.” 

“His medical history?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware that Mr.Nikiforov underwent annual testing for various STD’s, including HIV, up until just two years ago?”

“Objection! Irrelevant!” 

Viktor feels dizzy.

Oh… oh, that’s what he was asking. He was… they warned him about this. That they would try to…

“Overruled. Continue.”

“I’m aware that Mr. Nikiforov went in for annual blood exams, which included testing for those things you mentioned, yes.” The doctor answers. “I assumed, due to his profession, that type of testing was obligatory.”

“You didn’t think he was going in for those tests due to a certain, promiscuous lifestyle?”

“Objection! Leading the witness!”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase the question. Were you aware that Mr. Nikforov has a reputation for engaging in illegal, same sex relations with other men?”

The doctor hesitates.

“… Yes.” He answers.

“And do you think it’s possible that Mr. Nikiforov was getting tested for things like HIV because he was, in fact, engaging in sexual relations with other men?”

“… It’s possible.” The doctor answers.

Viktor’s heart is slamming against the cage of his ribs, his mouth dry.

Oh… oh God, he didn’t… he didn’t want Yuuri to hear this. He didn’t want Yura to either. They… 

He…

“Would you be surprised to learn that Mr. Nikiforov, in fact, had a large number of lovers over the years, all of whom were men?”

“No, I...”

“Objection, irrelevant! Your honor, I don’t see how this has anything to do with this case.” The prosecutor interrupts again.

“I agree.” The judge interjects. “Council, is there a point to this line of questioning?”

“I’m coming to it, your honor.” 

“Well, hurry it up.”

“Yes, your honor. Doctor, I’ll assume you’re aware that, in this country, publicly engaging in same-sex relations, and, in fact, displaying any sort of behavior of a similar nature, is against the law. Is that correct?”

“… I’m aware.”

“Do you also know that, in this country, if someone insults you, or verbally attacks you, it’s perfectly legal to defend yourself, including with physical retaliation?”

“… Yes.”

The lawyer smiles.

“Including if someone makes illicit, in fact, illegal sexual advances towards you?”

The doctor’s face is tight. Uneasy.

Viktor feels bile rising up in his throat. He can’t… he can’t…

He didn’t do that. He didn’t do what… what they’re trying to say he did. Oh… oh God…

“… I understand that to be the law, yes.” 

“No further questions.” The lawyer nods. He turns, his eyes catching on Viktor’s face. He smiles at him.

Viktor’s mind blanks out.

No… no. This was all wrong. 

What that man had implied, it… Viktor had never… would never…

“…tor? Viktor, hey… are you alright?”

He blinks. Someone’s talking to him. The… the prosecutor, he realizes. Mr. Smirnov.

“What?” He asks. His voice is low and rough. He doesn’t sound like himself to his own ears.

“Are you alright? You’re shaking.”

Viktor shakes his head. No, he thinks. No. He isn’t alright. None of this was alright.

“I-it isn’t true. Wh-what he’s saying. It isn’t true.” He pleads desperately. He has a sickening, crushing fear Mr. Smirnov won’t believe him. That no one will.

Mr. Smirnov’s hand comes down firmly on his shoulder, squeezing.

“I know, Viktor. I know that.”

Viktor can only look back at him, his eyes burning. He doesn’t want to cry again in front of all of these people. Oh, Christ…

“I’m going to request a break. Okay? Give you a chance to collect yourself.” 

Viktor blinks, fresh tears breaking free, slipping down his cheeks.

His voice feels closed up in his throat. He can’t talk, suddenly.

Mr. Smirnov doesn’t seem to mind. He gives Viktor’s shoulder one last squeeze, before he’s standing, asking the judge for a recess. 

Viktor’s mind goes to Yuuri. He can feel him sitting right behind him, and he wants… oh, he wants so desperately to turn and beg him to not believe what’s being said. What’s being implied. He… he wasn’t like that. He’d never… he wasn’t like…

“Vitya,”

There’s a hand on his back, and then Yuuri’s there, leaning over his shoulder.

Viktor reaches blindly up, groping for Yuuri’s hand. He’s terrified, suddenly. Scared out of his mind, and he can’t…

“Hey, come on. It’s alright. Let’s… let’s go outside for a few minutes. Okay?”

“Yuuri…” he starts, his voice small and trembling. Oh, he’s so weak. He’s pathetic. 

“It’s okay.” Yuuri tells him, and his lips press firm against Viktor’s temple. “You’re okay.”


End file.
